10 


'URE  SERIES.  No.  6K 


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, 

,  • 


CARLYLE 


■BR 


v  I 

'A-  .-I-  '  J 


OF  HEINE 


BY 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 

Author  of  *•  Sartor  Resartus,"  “  History  of  Frederick  the  Great."  etc.,  etc. 

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LOVELL’S  LITERATURE  SERIES. 


Desirable  Works  of  Current  and  Standard  Literature  in  a 
Convenient  and  Economical  Form. 


1  Modern  Painters.  Yol.  i.  By 

John  Ruskin .  30 

2  Modern  Painters.  Vol.  2 .  30 

3  Modern  Painters.  Vol.  3 .  40 

4  Modern  Painters.  Vol.  4 .  40 

5  Modern  Painters.  Vol.  5 .  40 

6  History  of  the  French  Revolution 

Vol  I.  By  Thomas  Carlyle. . .  30 

7  History  of  the  French  Revolution 

Vol.  2 .  30 

8  Stones  of  Venice.  Vol.  1.  By 

John  Ruskin .  40 

9  Stones  of  Venice.  Vol.  2 .  40 

10  Stones  of  Venice.  Vol.  3 .  40 

11  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture. 

By  John  Ruskin .  40 

12  Ethics  of  the  Dust.  By  Ruskin..  25 

13  Sesame  and  Lilies.  By  Ruskin..  25 

14  The  Queen  of  the  Air.  Ruskin..  25 

15  Crown  of  Wild  Olive.  Ruskin..  20 

16  Frederick  the  Great.  Vol.  1.  By 

Thomas  Carlyle .  30 

17  Frederick  the  Great.  Vol.  2 .  30 

18  Frederick  the  Great.  Vol.  3 . 30 

19  Ft  ederick  the  Great.  Vol.  4 .  30 

20  Frederick  the  Great.  Vol.  5 .  30 

21  Frederick  the  Great.  Vol.  6 .  30 

22  Frederick  the  Great.  Vol.  7 .  30 

•23  Frederick  the  Great.  Vol.  8 .  30 

24  Past  and  Present.  By  Carlyle...  25 

25  Sartor  Resartus.  By  Carlyle. .. .  25 

26  Art  of  England.  By  Ruskin .  25 

27  King  of  the  Golden  River.  By 

John  Ruskin .  25 

28  Deucalion.  By  John  Ruskin....  40 

29  St.  Mark's  Rest.  By  Ruskin....  25 

30  Lectures  on  Art.  By  Ruskin _ 25 

31  The  Two  Paths.  By  Ruskin  ....  25 

32  Val  D’Arno  ;  Pleasures  of  Eng¬ 

land.  By  John  Ruskin .  30 

33  Arrows,  I.  By  John  Ruskin .  25 

34  Arrows,  II.  By  John  Ruskin. .. .  25 

35  Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us;  The 

Laws  of  Fesole.  By  Ruskin..  30 

36  A  Joy  Forever  ;  Inaugural  Ad¬ 

dress.  By  John  Ruskin .  20 

37  Oliver  Cromwell,  I.  By  Carlyle.  30 

38  Oliver  Cromwell,  II .  30 

39  Oliver  Cromwell,  III .  30 

40  Chartism.  By  Thomas  Carlyle. .  20 

41  Poems.  By  John  Ruskin .  20 

42  Poetry  of  /  rchitecture  ;  Giotto 

and  His  Works.  By  Ruskin..  25 

43  Fors  Clavigera,  I.  By  Ruskin..  30 

44  Fors  Clavigera,  1 1 .  30 

45  Fors  Clavigera,  III .  30 

46  Fors  Clavigera,  IV .  30 

47  Lectures  on  Architecture  and 

Painting.  By  John  Ruskin. . .  30 

48  Preraphaelitism  :  Aratra  Pene- 

lici.  By  John  Ruskin .  30 

49  Elements  of  Drawing.  Ruskin..  25 

50  Proserpina.  By  John  Ruskin _  40 

51  Ariadne :  Crystal  Palace  Lecture 

By  John  Ruskin .  30 


52  Mornings  in  Florence  ;  Time  and 

Tide.  By  John  Ruskin .  25 

53  Life  of  Schiller.  By  Carlyle .  25 

54  Life  of  John  Sterling,  Carlyle..  25 

55  Latter-day  Pamphlets.  Carlyle.  30 

56  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship.  By 

Thomas  Cai  lyle .  25 

57  Diamond  Necklace  and  Mirabeau. 

By  Thomas  Carlyle . .  20 

58  Early  Kings  of  Norway.  Carlyle  20  j 

59  Willis’  Poems.  By  N.  P.  Willis  .  25  4 

60  Characteristics  and  other  Essays. 

By  Thomas  Carlyle .  2a 

61  Life  of  Heine.  By  Carlyle .  20 

62  Count  Cagliostro.  By  Carlyle. ..  20 

63  Jean  Paul  Frederick  Richter.  By 

Thomas  Carlyle .  20 

64  Goethe  and  Miscellaneous  Essays. 

By  Thomas  Carlyle .  2c 

65  German  Literature.  By  Carlyle.  2c 

66  Corn  Law  Rhymes  and  Other 

Essays.  By  Thomas  Carlyle.  201 

67  Signs  of  the  Time.  By  Carlyle..  2oj 

68  Dr.  Francia  and  other  Essays. 

By  Thomas  Carlyle .  20] 

69  Portraits  of  John  Knox.  Carlyle  20] 

70  Voltaire  and  Novalis.  Carlyle...  20I 

71  Light  of  Asia.  Edwin  Arnold. . .  25I 

72  Aurora  Leigh.  By  Browning...  2_ 

73  Sketch  Book.  By  Irving .  3c) 

74  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.  By  T. 

B.  Macaulay .  2I 

75  Bryant's  Poems.  By  Bryant _  3c 

76  Selected  Poems.  By  Longfellow  25 

77  Selected  Poems.  By  Whittier. . .  2=1 

78  Dante's  Vision  of  Hell,  Purga¬ 

tory,  and  Paradise .  251 

79  Lucile.  By  Owen  Meredith .  25I 

80  Life  of  Washington.  By  Henley  25 

81  Crayon  Papers.  By  Irving .  2c 1 

82  Life  of  Byron.  By  John  Nichol.  2c| 

83  Emerson’s  Essays.  Vol.  1 .  25I 

84  Life  of  Gibbon.  J.  C.  Morrison.  2c| 

85  Paradise  Lost.  By  Milton .  2-1 

86  Over  the  Summer  Seas.  By  John 

87  Lalla  Rookh.  By  Thos.  Moore. .  2  J 

88  Life  of  Fredrica  Bremer .  2 4 

89  Byron’s  Poems .  3<.| 

90  Browning’s  (Robt.)  Poems .  25 

91  Tennyson’s  Poems .  4c 

92  Proctor’s  Poems.  By  A.  Proctor  25 

93  Scott’s  Poems . 

94  Goldsmith’s  Plays .  2cJ 

95  A  Tour  of  the  Prairies.  Irving..  24 

96  An  Outline  of  Irish  History.  By 

J.  H.  M’Carthy . 

97  Whist  or  Bumblepuppy .  2c| 

98  Tale  of  a  Traveler.  By  Irving.  2  : 

99  Baillie  the  Covenanter.  Carlyle  2(4 

100  Emerson’s  Essays.  Vol.  II .  21 

101  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor.  By 

Walter  Scott .  2<| 

102  Hyperion.  By  Longfellow .  2] 

103  Outre  Mer.  By  Longfellow, ...  2' 


CRITICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS 


\ 


ESSAYS 


COLLECTED  AND  REPUBLISHED 


BY 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 


THE  LIFE  OF  IIEYNE.— GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 

APPENDIX ; 


1* 

( 


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Works  of  Thomas  Carlyle 


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NO.  CENTS. 

99.  Baillie,  the  Covenanter .  20 

40.  Chartism .  20 

66.  Corn  Law  Rhymes  and  other  Essays  20 

62.  Count  Cagliostro .  20 

57.  Diamond  Necklace  and  Mirabeau...  20 

68.  Dr.  Francia .  20 

58.  Early  Kings  of  Norway .  20 

60.  Characteristics  and  other  Essays...  30 
16-23.  Frederick  the  Great.  8  vols.,  each,  30 

65.  German  Literature .  20 

64.  Goethe  and  Miscellaneous  Essays...  20 

S6.  Heroes  and  FIero  Worship .  25 

6-7.  History  of  the  French  Revolution. 

2  vols . each,  30 

63.  Jean  Paul  Frederich  Richter .  20 

55.  Latter-Day  Pamphlets .  30 

61.  Life  of  Heine .  20 

54.  Life  of  John  Sterling .  25 

53.  Life  of  Schiller .  25 

37—39.  Oliver  Cromwell.  3  vols . each,  30 

24.  Past  and  Present .  25 

69.  Portraits  of  John  Knox .  20 

25.  Sartor  Resartus .  25 

67.  Signs  of  the  Times .  20 

70.  Voltaire  and  Novalis .  20 


I 


I 


L*  ‘I 


THE  LIFE  OF  HETISTE 

>  «» 


701494 


% 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE 


Professor  Heeren’s  biographical  and  general  literary  abilites.  Stinted 
rnb-a-dub  style  of  thinking  and  writing:  Rhetorical  flourishes  :  Truth¬ 
fulness  and  trustworthiness,  (p.  5). — Some  account  of  Heyne’s  early 
years,  given  in  his  own  words.  Honesty,  industry  and  almost  destitu¬ 
tion  of  his  parents.  Petty  tyranny  and  rapacity  :  A  juvenile  would-be 
Brutus.  Early  schooling  :  hardships  and  helps :  A  quick  scholar.  His 
account  of  his  boyhood  rather  barren  and  intolerant.  Extraordinary 
school  proficiency.  A  small  degree  of  self-confidence  awakened  in  him  : 
General  discontent:  Becomes  a  private  tutor.  (7). — At  Leipzig  Uni¬ 
versity:  ill-clotlied,  destitute  of  books,  with  five  shillings  in  his  purse  : 
He  picked  up  what  scraps  of  learning  he  could  lay  hold  of :  Ernesti  the 
only  teacher  from  whom  lie  derived  any  benefit.  Heyne’s  best  teacher, 
himself:  Without  any  clear  aim,  he  set  his  heart  on  attaining  knowl¬ 
edge,  and  no  promise  or  threat  could  turn  him  back.  Occasionally  gets 
employment  in  giving  private  lessons:  Chooses  the  profession  of  law. 
Some  Latin  verses  attract  the  notice  of  Count  Bruhl.  Ministerial  smiles 
and  empty  promises.  Again  helps  himself  by  private  teaching  :  A  hard 
bed  :  Boiled  pease-cods  not  unfrequently  his  only  meal :  A  poor'appoint- 
ment.  (15). — His  edition  of  Tibullus.  His  day  of  difficulty  far  from 
past.  Some  consequences  of  the  Seven-Years  War :  Literary  strug¬ 
gles.  Accepts  a  tutorship  in  the  family  of  Herr  von  Schi  nberg.  Theresa 
Weiss:  Her  earnest  intelligence,  and  good-heartedness:  Friendship 
ripening  into  passion  :  Mutual  confidence.  Bombardment  of  Dresden  : 
Flight,  and  helpless  destitution.  Theresa's  extreme  illness:  She  re¬ 
nounces  the  Catholic,  and  publicly  embraces  the  Fiotesant  Faith  :  Mar¬ 
riage  :  a  bold  step,  but  aright  one.  Domestic  difficulties  and  hardships  : 
Theresa's  prompt  courage.  (20). — Dawning  of  better  days:  Appointed 
Professor  of  Eloquence  at  Gottingen.  His  long  life  henceforth  quietly 
and  actively  fruitful.  His  literary  and  other  labours.  Death  of  hi§ 
noble-liearted  Wife  :  Grounds  of  consolation.  His  friends  provide  him) 
with  a  new  Bride :  She  proved  an  excellent  wife  to  him.  State  of  edu-j 
cation  in  Germany.  Heynes  successful  labours  for  the  Gottingen 
University.  He  lived  till  he  had  completed  all  his  undertakings  i 
and  died  softly  and  gently  in  his  eighty-third  year.  (27). —His  intelA  • 
lectual  character.  Founded  a  new  epoch  in  classical  study.  A  show  oij 
dulness  and  hardness  in  him,  not  intrinsically  belonging  to  him :  A 
kindly  old  man,  whom  the  Germans  have  some  reason  to  be  proud  ""  • 
Aaiother  proof  that  man  is  not  the  product  of  his  circumstances, 
that,  in  a  far  higher  degree,  the  circumstances  are  the  product  of 
man.  (86). 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


[1828.] 

The  labours  and  merits  of  Heyne  being  better  known,  and 
more  justly  appreciated  in  England,  than  those  of  almost  any 
other  German,  whether  scholar,  poet  or  philosopher,  we  can¬ 
not  but  believe  that  some  notice  of  his  life  may  be  acceptable 
to  most  readers.  Accordingly,  we  here  mean  to  give  a  short 
abstract  of  this  Volume,  a  miniature  copy  of  the'  ‘biograph¬ 
ical  portrait  ;  ’  but  must  first  say  a  few  words  on  the  portrait 
itself,  and  the  limner  by  whom  it  was  drawn. 

Professor  Heeren  is  a  man  of  learning,  and  known  far  out 
of  his  own  Hanoverian  circle, — -indeed,  more  or  less  to  all 
students  of  history, — by  his  researches  on  Ancient  Com¬ 
merce,  a  voluminous  account  of  which  from  his  hand  enjoys 
considerable  reputation.  He  is  evidently  a  man  of  sense  and 
natural  talent,  as  well  as  learning  ;  and  his  gifts  seem  to  lie 
round  him  in  quiet  arrangement,  and  very  much  at  his  own 
command.  Nevertheless,  we  cannot  admire  him  as  a  writer  ; 
we  do  not  even  reckon  that  such  endowments  as  he  has  are 
adequately  represented  in  his  books.  His  style  both  of  dic¬ 
tion  and  thought  is  thin,  cold,  formal,  without  force  or  char¬ 
acter,  and  painfully  reminds  us  of  college  lectures.  He  can 
work  rapidly,  but  with  no  freedom,  and,  as  it  were,  only  in 
one  attitude,  and  at  one  sort  of  labour.  Not  that  we  particu¬ 
larly  blame  Professor  Heeren  for  this,  but  that  we  think  he 
might  have  been  something  better :  these  *  fellows  in  buck- 

1  Foreign  Review,  No.  4.  —  Christian  Gottlob  Heyne  biographisch 
dargestellt  wn  Arnold  Hermann  Ludwig  Heeren.  (Christian  Gottlob 
.Heyne  biographically  portrayed  by  Arnold  Hermann  Ludwig  Heeren.  y 
Gottingen. 


6 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


ram,’  very  numerous  in  certain  walks  of  literature,  are  an 
unfortunate  rather  than  a  guilty  class  of  men  ;  they  have 
fallen,  perhaps  unwillingly,  into  the  plan  of  writing  by  pat¬ 
tern,  and  can  now  do  no  other ;  for,  in  their  minds,  the 
beautiful  comes'  at  last  to  be  simply  synonymous  with  the 
neat.  Every  sentence  bears  a  family-likeness  to  its  precur¬ 
sor  ;  most  probably  it  has  a  set  number  of  clauses  (three 
is  a  favourite  number,  as  in  Gibbon,  for  c  the  Muses  delight 
in  odds  ’ )  :  has  also  a  given  rhythm,  a  known  and  foreseen 
music,  simple  but  limited  enough,  like  that  of  ill-bred  fingers 
drumming  on  a  table.  And  then  it  is  strange  how  soon  the 
outward  rhythm  carries  the  inward  along  with  it ;  and  the 
thought  moves  with  the  same  stinted,  hamstrung  rub-a-dub 
as  the  words.  In  a  state  of  perfection,  this  species  of  writing 
comes  to  resemble  power-loom  weaving  ;  it  is  not  the  mind 
that  is  at  work,  but  some  scholastic  machinery  which  the 
mind  has  of  old  constructed,  and  is  from  afar  observing. 
Shot  follows  shot  from  the  unwearied  shuttle  ;  and  so  the 
web  is  woven,  ultimately  and  properly,  indeed,  by  the  wit  of 
man,  yet  immediately  and  in  the  meanwhile  by  the  mere  aid 
of  time  and  steam. 

But  our  Professor’s  mode  of  speculation  is  little  less  in¬ 
tensely  academic  than  his  mode  of  writing.  We  fear  he  is 
something  of  what  the  Germans  call  a  Kleinstadter  ;  mentally 
as  well  as  bodily,  a  ‘  dweller  in  a  little  town.’  He  speaks  at 
great  length,  and  with  undue  fondness,  of  the  ‘  Georgia  Au¬ 
gusta  ;  ’  which,  after  all,  is  but  the  University  of  Gottingen, 
an  earthly  and  no  celestial  institution  :  it  is  nearly  in  vain 
that  he  tries  to  contemplate  Heyne  as  a  European  person¬ 
age,  or  even  as  a  German  one  ;  beyond  the  precincts  of  the 
Georgia  Augusta,  his  view  seems  to  grow  feeble,  and  soon 
dies  away  into  vague  inanity  ;  so  we  have  not  Heyne,  the 
man  and  scholar,  but  Heyne  the  Gottingen  Professor.  But 
neither  is  this  habit  of  mind  any  strange  or  crying  sin,  or  at 
all  peculiar  to  Gottingen  ;  as,  indeed,  most  parishes  in  Eng¬ 
land  can  produce  more  than  one  example  to  show.  And 
yet  it  is  pitiful,  when  an  establishment  for  universal  -science, 
which  ought  to  be  a.  watehtower  where  a  man  might  see  all 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE. 


7 


the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  converts  itself  into  a  workshop, 
whence  he  sees  nothing  hut  his  toolbox  and  bench,  and  the 
world,  in  broken  glimpses,  through  one  patched  and  highly 
discoloured  pane  ! 

Sometimes,  indeed,  our  v  orthy  friend  rises  into  a  region  of 
the  moral  sublime,  in  which  it  is  difficult  for  a  foreigner  to 
follow  him.  Thus  he  says,  on  one  occasion,  speaking  of 
Heyne  :  ‘  Immortal  are  his  merits  in  regard  to  the  catalogues  ’ 
— of  the  Gottingen  library.  And,  to  cite  no  other  instance 
except  the  last  and  best  one,  we  are  informed,  that  when 
Heyne  died,  ‘the  guardian  angels  of  the  Georgia  Augusta 
‘  waited,  in  that  higher  world,  to  meet  him  with  blessings.’ 
By  Day  and  Night !  there  is  no  such  guardian  angel,  that 
we  know  of,  for  the  University  of  Gottingen  ;  neither  does  it 
need  one,  being  a  good  solid  seminary  of  itself,  with  hand¬ 
some  stipends  from  Government.  We  had  imagined  too,  that 
if  anybody  welcomed  people  into  heaven,  it  would  be  St. 
Peter,  or  at  least  some  angel  of  old  standing,  and  not  a  mere 
mushroom,  as  this  of  Gottingen  must  be,  created  since  the 
year  1?39. 

But  we  are  growing  very  ungrateful  to  the  good  Heeren, 
who  meant  no  harm  by  these  flourishes  of  rhetoric,  and  in¬ 
deed  does  not  often  indulge  in  them.  The  grand  questions 
with  us  here  are,  Did  he  know  the  truth  in  this  matter  ;  and 
and  wTas  he  disposed  to  tell  it  honestly  ?  To  both  of  which 
questions  we  can  answer  without  reserve,  that  all  appearances 
are  in  his  favour.  He  was  Heyne’s  pupil,  colleague,  son-in- 
law,  and  so  knew  him  intimately  for  thirty  years  :  he  has 
every  feature  also  of  a  just,  quiet,  truth-loving  man  ;  so  that 
we  see  little  reason  to  doubt  the  authenticity,  the  innocence, 
of  any  statement  in  his  Volume.  What  more  have  wre  to  do 
with  him  then,  but  to  take  thankfully  what  he  has  been 
pleased  and  able  to  give  us,  and,  with  all  despatch,  commu¬ 
nicate  it  to  our  readers  ? 

— —  % 

Hevne’s  Life  is  not  without  an  intrinsic,  as  well  as  an  ex. 

C'  j 

ternal  interest ;  for  he  had  much  to  struggle  with,  and  he. 
struggled  with  it  manfully  ;  thus  his  history  has  a  value  in- 


8 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE, 


dependent  of  his  fame.  Some  account  of  his  early  years  we 
are  happily  enabled  to  give  in  his  own  words  :  we  translate 
a  considerable  part  of  this  passage ;  autobiography  being  a 
favourite  sort  of  reading  with  us. 

He  was  born  at  Chemnitz,  in  Upper  Saxony,  in  September 
1729  ;  the  eldest  of  a  poor  weaver’s  family,  poor  almost  to 
the  verge  of  destitution. 

‘My  good  father,  George  Heyne,’  says  he,  cwTas  a  native 
of  the  principality  of  Glogau,  in  Silesia,  from  the  little  village 
of  Gravenschiitz.  His  vouth  had  fallen  in  those  times  when 
the  Evangelist  party  of  that  province  were  still  exposed  to  the 
oppressions  and  persecutions  of  the  Romish  Church.  His 
kindred,  enjoying  the  blessing  of  contentment  in  an  humble 
but  independent  station,  felt,  like  others,  the  influence  of  this 
proselytising  bigotry,  and  lost  their  domestic  peace  by  means 
of  it.  Some  went  over  to  the  Romish  faith.  My  father  left 
his  native  village,  and  endeavoured,  by  the  labour  of  his 
hands,  to  procure  a  livelihood  in  Saxony.  “  What  will  it  pro¬ 
fit  a  man,  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul !  ” 
was  the  thought  which  the  scenes  of  his  youth  had  ^tamped 
the  most  deeply  on  his  mind.  But  no  lucky  chance  favoured 
his  enterprises  or  endeavours  to  better  his  condition,  never  so 
little.  On  the  contrary,  a  series  of  perverse  incidents  kept 
him  continually  below  the  limits  even  of  a  moderate  suffici¬ 
ency.  His  old  age  was  thus  left  a  prey  to  poverty,  and  to  her 
companions,  timidity  and  depression  of  mind.  Manufactures, 
at  that  time,  were  visibly  declining  in  Saxony  ;  and  the  misery 
among  the  working- classes,  in  districts  concerned  in  the  linen 
trade,  was  unusually  severe.  Scarcely  could  the  labour  of  the 
hands  suffice  to  support  the  labourer  himself,  still  less  his 
family.  The  saddest  aspect  which  the  decay  of  civic  society 
can  exhibit  has  always  appeared  to  me  to  be  this,  when  hon¬ 
ourable,  honour-loving,  conscientious  diligence  cannot,  by  the 
utmost  efforts  of  toil,  obtain  the  necessaries  of  life  ;  or  when 
the  working  man  cannot  even  find  work,  but  must  stand  with 
folded  arms,  lamenting  his  forced  idleness,  through  which 
himself  and  his  family  are  verging  to  starvation,  or  it  may  be, 
actually  suffering  the  pains  of  hunger. 

‘  It  was  in  the  extremest  penury  that  I  was  born  and 
brought  up.  The  earliest  companion  of  my  childhood  was 
Want;  and 'my  first  impressions  came  from  the  tears  of  my 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  TEE. 


9 


mother,  who  had  not  bread  for  her  children.  How  often  have 
I  seen  her  on  Satur day-nights  wringing  her  hands  and  weep¬ 
ing,  when  she  had  come  back  with  what  the  hard  toil,  nay 
often  the  sleepless  nights,  of  her  husband  had  produced,  and 
could  find  none  to  buy  it !  Sometimes  a  fresh  attempt  was 
made  through  me  or  my  sister :  I  had  to  return  to  the  pur¬ 
chasers  with  the  same  piece  of  wTare,  to  see  whether  w7e  could 
not  possibly  get  rid  of  it.  In  that  quarter  there  is  a  class  of 
so-called  merchants,  who,  however,  are  in  fact  nothing  more 
than  forestallers,  that  buy  up  the  linen  made  by  the  poorer 
people  at  the  lowest  price,  and  endeavour  to  sell  •  it  in  other 
districts  at  the  highest.  Often  have  I  seen  one  or  other  of 
these  petty  tyrants,  with  all  the  pride  of  a  satrap,  throw  back 
the  piece  of  goods  offered  him,  or  imperiously  cut  off  some 
trifle  from  the  price  and  wages  required  for  it.  Necessity  con¬ 
strained  the  poorer  to  sell  the  sweat  of  his  brow  at  a  groschen 
or  two  less,  and  again  to  make  good  the  deficit  by  starving. 
It.  was  the  view  of  such  things  that  awakened  the  first  sparks 
of  indignation  in  my  young  heart.  The  show  of  pomp  and 
plenty  among  these  purse-proud  people,  wrho  fed  themselves 
on  the  extorted  crumbs  of  so  many  hundreds,  far  from  daz¬ 
zling  me  into  respect  or  fear,  filled  me  with  rage  against  them. 
The  first  time  I  heard  of  tyrannicide  at  school,  there  rose  viv¬ 
idly  before  me  the  project  to  become  a  Brutus  on  all  those 
oppressors  of  the  poor,  who  had  so  often  cast  my  father  and 
mother  into  straits.:  and  here,  for  the  first  time,  was  an  in¬ 
stance  of  a  truth  which  I  have  since  had  frequent  occasion  to 
observe,  that  if  the  unhappy  man,  armed  with  feeling  of  his 
wu’ongs  and  a  certain  strength  of  soul,  does  not  risk  the  ut¬ 
most  and  become  an  open  criminal,  it  is  merely  the  beneficent 
result  of  those  circumstances  in  which  Providence  has  placed 
him,  thereby  fettering  his  activity,  and  guarding  him  from 
such  destructive  attempts.  That  the  oppressing  part  of  man¬ 
kind  should  be  secured  against  the  oppressed  was,  in  the  plan 
of  inscrutable  Wisdom,  a  most  important  element  of  the  pres¬ 
ent  system  of  things. 

‘  My  good  parents  did  what  they  could,  and  sent  me  to  a 
chikTs-scliool  in  the  suburbs.  I  obtained  the  praise  of  learn¬ 
ing  very  fast,  and  being  very  fond  of  it.  My  schoolmaster 
had  two  sons,  lately  returned  Pom  Leipzig ;  a  couple  of  de¬ 
praved  fellows,  'who  took  all  pains  to  lead  me  astray  ;  and,  as 
I  resisted,  kept  me  for  a  long  time,  by  threats  and  mistreat¬ 
ment  of  all  sorts,  extremely  miserable.  So  early  as  my  tenth 
year,  to  raise  the  money  for  my  school  wages,  I  had  given  les- 


10 


THE  LIFE  OF  I1EYNE. 


sons  to  a  neighbour’s  child,  a  little  girl,  in  reading  and  writing. 
As  the  common  school-course  could  take  me  no  farther,  the 
point  now.  was  to  get  a  private  hour  and  proceed  into  Latin. 
But  for  that  purpose  a  guter  groschen  weekly  was  required  ; 
this  my  parents  had  not  to  give.  Many  a  day  I  carried  this 
grief  about  with  me  :  however,  I  had  a  godfather,  who  was  in 
easy  circumstances,  a  baker,  and  my  mother’s  half-brother. 
One  Saturday  I  was  sent  to  this  man  to  fetch  a  loaf.  With 
wet  eyes  I  entered  his  house,  and  chanced  to  find  my  god¬ 
father  himself  there.  Being  questioned  why  I  was  crying,  I 
tried  to  answer,  but  a  whole  stream  of  tears  broke  loose,  and 
scarcely  could  I  make  the  cause  of  my  sorrow  intelligible. 
My  magnanimous  godfather  offered  to  pay  the  weekly  gro- 
sehen  out  of  his  own  pocket ;  and  only  this  condition  was  im¬ 
posed  on  me,  that  I  should  come  to  him  every  Sunday,  and 
repeat  what  part  of  the  Gospel  I  had  learned  by  heart.  This 
latter  arrangement  had  one  good  effect  for  me, — it  exercised 
my  memory,  and*  1  learned  to  recite  without  bashfulness. 

‘Drunk  with  joy,  I  started  off’  with  my  loaf  ;  tossing  it  up 
time  after  time  into  the  air,  and  barefoot  as  I  was,  I  capered 
aloft  after  it.  But  hereupon  my  loaf  fell  into  a  puddle.  This 
misfortune  again  brought  me  a  little  to  reason.  My  mother 
heartily  rejoiced  at  the  good  news  ;  my  father  wTas  less  con¬ 
tent.  Thus  passed  a  couple  of  years  ;  and  my  schoolmaster 
intimated,  what  I  myself  had  long  known,  that  I  could  now 
learn  no  more  from  him. 

‘  This  then  was  the  time  when  I  must  leave  school,  and  be¬ 
take  me  to  the  handicraft  of  my  father.  Were  not  the  artisan 
under  oppressions  of  so  many  kinds,  robbed  of  the  fruits  of 
his  hard  toil,  and  of  so  many  advantages  to  which  the  useful 
citizen  has  a  natural  claim  ;  I  should  still  say  :  Had  I  but  con¬ 
tinued  in  the  station  of  my  parents,  what  thousandfold  vexa¬ 
tion  would  at  this  hour  have  been  unknown  to  me !  My  father 
could  not  but  be  anxious  to  have  a  grown-up  son  for  an  assist¬ 
ant  in  his  labour,  and  looked  upon  my  repugnance  to  it 
with  great  dislike.  I  again  longed  to  get  into  the  grammar- 
school  of  the  town  ;  but  for  this  ail  means  were  wanting. 
Where  was  a  gulden  of  quarterly  fees,  where  were  books  and 
a  blue  cloak  to  be  come  at  ?  How  wistfully  my  look  often 
hung  on  the  walls  of  the  school  when  I  passed  it ! 

‘  A  clergyman  of  the  suburbs  was  my  second  godfather  ;  his 
name  was  .Sebastian  Seydel ;  my  schoolmaster,  who  likewise 
belonged  to  his  congregation,  had  told  him  of  me.  I  was 
sent  for,  and  after  a  short  examination,  lie  promised  me  that 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE. 


11 


I  should  go  to  the  town-school  ;  he  himself  would  bear  the 
charges.  Who  can  express  my  happiness,  as  I  then  felt  it ! 
I  was  despatched  to  the  first  teacher  ;  examined,  and  placed 
with  approbation  in  the  second  class.  Weakly  from  the  first, 
pressed  down  with  sorrow  and  wTant,  without  any  cheerful  en¬ 
joyment  of  childhood  or  youth,  I  was  still  of  very  small  stat¬ 
ure  ;  my  class  fellows  judged  by  externals,  and  had  a  very 
slight  opinion  of  me.  Scarcely,  by  various  proofs  of  diligence 
and  by  the  praises  I  received,  -could  I  get  so  far  that  they  tol¬ 
erated  my  being  put  beside  them. 

'  ‘  And  certainly  my  diligence  was  not  a  little  hampered !  Of 
his  promise,  the  clergyman,  indeed,  kept  so  much,  that  he 
paid  my  quarterly  fees,  provided  me  with  a  coarse  cloak,  and 
gave  me  some  useless  volumes  that  were  lying  on  his  shelves 
but  to  furnish  me  with  school-books  he  could  not  resolve.  I 
thus  found  myself  under  the  necessity  of  borrowing  a  class- 
fellow’s  books,  and  daily  copying  a  part  of  them  before  the 
lesson.  On  the  other  hand,  the  honest  man  would  have  some 
hand  himself  in  my  instruction,  and  gave  me  from  time  to 
time  some  hours  in  Latin.  In  his  vouth  he  had  learned  to 
make  Latin  verses  :  scarcely  was  Erasmus  de  Civilitate  Morum 
got  over,  when  I  too  must  take  to  verse-making ;  all  this  be¬ 
fore  I  had  read  any  authors,  or  could  possibly  possess  any 
store  of  wrords.  The  man  was  withal  passionate  and  rigorous  ; 
in  every  point  repulsive  ;  with  a  moderate  income  he  was  ac¬ 
cused  of  avarice  ;  he  had  the  stiffness  and  self-will  of  an  old 
bachelor,  and  at  the  same  time  the  vanity  pi  aiming  to  be  a 
good  Latinist,  and,  what  was  more,  a  Latin  verse-maker,  and 
consequently  a  literary  clergyman.  These  qualities  of  his  all 
contributed  to  overload  my  youth,  and  nip  away  in  the  bud 
every  enjoyment  of  its  pleasures.’ 

In  this  plain  but  somewhat  leaden  style  does  Heyne  pro¬ 
ceed,  detailing  the  crosses  and  losses  of  his  school-years.  Wo 
cannot  pretend  that  the  narrative  delights  us  much  ;  nay,  that 
it  is  not  rather  bald  and  barren  for  such  a  narrative  ;  but  its 
fidelity  may  be  relied  on  ;  and  it  paints  the  clear,  broad,  strong 
and  somewhat  heavy  nature  of  the  writer,  perhaps  better  than 
description  could  do.  It  is  curious,  for  instance,  to  see  with 
how  little  of  a  purely  humane  interest  he  looks  back  to  his 
childhood  ;  how  Heyne  the  man  has  almost  grown  into  a  sort 
of  teaching-machine,  and  sees  in  Heyne  the  boy  little  else  than 


12 


TEE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


the  incipient  Gerundgrinder,  and  tells  us  little  else  but  liow 
this  wheel  after  the  other  was  developed  in  him,  and  he  came 
at  last  to  grind  in  complete  perfection.  We  could  have  wished 
to  get  some  view  into  the  interior  of  that  poor  Chemnitz  hovel, 
with  its  unresting  loom  and  cheerless  hearth,  its  squalor  and 
devotion,  its  affection  and  repining ;  and  the  fire  of  natural 
genius  struggling  into  flame  amid  such  incumbrances,  in  an 
atmosphere  so  damp  and  close  !  But  of  all  this  we  catch  few 
farther  glimpses  ;  and  hear  only  of  Fabricius  and  Owen  and 
Pasor,  and  school-examinations,  and  rectors  that  had  been 
taught  by  Ernesti.  Neither,  in  another  respect,  not  of  omis¬ 
sion  but  of  commission,  can  this  piece  of  writing  altogether 
content  us,  We  must  object  a  little  to  the  spirit  of  it,  as  too 
narrow,  too  intolerant.  Sebastian  Seydel  must  have  been  a 
very  meagre  men ;  but  is  it  right  that  Heyne,  of  all  others, 
should  speak  of  him  with  asperity?  Without  question  the  un¬ 
fortunate  Seydel  meant  nobly,  had  not  thrift  stood  in  his  way. 
Did  he  not  pay  down  his  gulden  every  quarter  regularly,  and 
give  the  boy  a  blue  cloak,  though  a  coarse  one  ?  Nay,  he  be¬ 
stowed  old  books  on  him,  and  instruction,  according  to  his 
gift,  in  the  mystery  of  verse-making.  And  was  not  all  this 
something  ?  And  if  thrift  and  charity  had  a  continual  battle 
to  fight,  was  not  that  better  than  a  flat  surrender  on  the  part 
of  the  latter  ?  The  other  pastors  of  Chemnitz  are  all  quietly 
forgotten  :  why  should  Sebastian  be  remembered  to  his  dis¬ 
advantage  for  being  only  a  little  better  than  they  ? 

Hevne  continued  to  be  much  infested  with  tasks  from  Se- 
bastian,  and  sorely  held  down  by  want,  and  discouragement 
of  every  sort.  The  school-course  moreover,  he  says,  was  bad  ; 
nothing  but  the  old  routine  ;  vocables,  translations,  exercises  ; 
all  without  spirit  or  purpose.  Nevertheless,  he  continued 
to  make  what  we  must  call  wonderful  proficiency  in  these 
branches  ;  especially  as  he  had  still  to  write  every  task  before 
he  could  learn  it.  Eor  he  prepared  £  Greek  versions,’  he  says, 
‘  also  Greek  verses  ;  and  by  and  by  could  write  down  in  Greek 
‘  prose,  and  at  last,  in  Greek  as  well  as  Latin  verses,  the  dis- 
‘  courses  he  heard  in  church  !’  Some  ray  of  hope  was  begin¬ 
ning  to  spring  up  within  his  mind.  A  certain  small  degree  of 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE. 


13 


self-confidence  had  first  been  awakened  in  him,  as  lie  informs 
us,  by  a  e  pedantic  adventure  :  ’ 

‘  There  chanced  to  be  a  school-examination  held,  at  which 
the  Superintendent,  as  chief  school-inspector,  was  present. 
This  man,  Dr.  Theodor  Kruger,  a  theologian  of  some  learn¬ 
ing  for  his  time,  all  at  once  interrupted  the  rector,  who  was 
teaching  ex  cathedra ,  and  put  the  question  :  Who  among  the 
scholars  could  tell  him  what  might  be  made  per  anagramma 
from  the  word  Austria?  This  whim  had  arisen  from  the  cir¬ 
cumstance  that  the  first  Silesian  war  was  just  begun  ;  and 
some  such  anagram,  reckoned  very  happy,  had  appeared  in  a 
newspaper.1  No  one  of  us  knew  so  much  as  what  an  anagram 
was  ;  even  the  rector  looked  quite  perplexed.  As  none  an¬ 
swered,  the  latter  began  to  give  us  a  description  of  anagrams 
in  general.  I  set  myself  to  work,  and  sprang  forth  with  my 
discovery:  Vastari  !  This  was  something  different  from  the 
newspaper  one  :  so  much  the  greater  was  our  Superintend¬ 
ent’s  admiration  ;  and  the  more,  as  the  successful  aspirant 
wTas  a  little  boy,  on  the  lowest  bench  of  the  secunda.  He 
growled  out  his  applause  to  me  ;  but  at  the  same  time  set  the 
whole  school  about  my  ears,  as  he  stoutly  upbraided  them 
with  being  beaten  by  an  ihftmus. 

‘  Enough  :  this  pedantic  adventure  gave  the  first  impulse 
to  the  development  of  my  powers.  I  began  to  take  some 
credit  to  myself,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  oppression  and  con¬ 
tempt  in  which  I  languished,  to  resolve  on  struggling  for¬ 
ward.  This  first  struggle  was  in  truth  ineffectual  enough ; 
wras  soon  regarded  as  a  piece  of  pride  and  conceitedness  ;  it 
brought  on  me  a  thousand  humiliations  and  disquietudes  ;  at 
times  it  might  degenerate  on  my  part  into  defiance.  Never¬ 
theless,  it  kept  me  at  the  stretch  of  my  diligence,  ill-guided 
as  it  was;  and  withdrew  me  from  the  company  of  my  class- 
fellows,  among  whom,  as  among  children  of  low  birth  and  bad 
nurture  could  not  fail  to  be  the  case,  the  utmost  coarseness 
and  boorishness  of  every  sort  prevailed.  .The  plan  of  these 
schools  does  not  include  any  general  inspection,  but  limits 
itself  to  mere  intellectual  instruction. 

‘Yet  on  all  hands,’  continues  he,  ‘I  found  myself  too  sadly 
hampered.  The  perverse  w7ay  in  which  the  old  parson  treated 
me  ;  at  home  the  discontent  and  grudging  of  m37  parents, 
especially  of  my  father,  who  could  not  get  011  with  his  work, 

1  ‘  As  yet  Saxony  was  against  Austria,  not,  as  in  tlie  end,  allied  with,  her.’ 


u 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


and  still  thought  that,  had  I  kept  by  his  way  of  life,  he 
might  now  have  had  some  help  ; .  the  pressure  of  want,  the 
feeling  of  being  behind  every  other  ;  ah  this  would  allow  no 
cheerful  thought,  no  sentiment  of  worth  to  spring  up  within 
me.  A  timorous,  bashful,  awkward  carriage  shut  me  out  still 
farther  from  all  exterior  attractions.  Where  could  I  learn 
good  manners,  elegance,  a  right  way  of  thought  ?  Where 
could  I  attain  any  culture  for  heart  and  spirit  ? 

£  Upwards,  however,  I  still  strove.  A  feeling  of  honour,  a 
wish  for  something  better,  an  effort  to  work  myself  out  of 
this  abasement,  incessantly  attended  me  ;  but  without  direc¬ 
tion  as  it  was,  it  led  me  rather  to  sullenness,  misanthropy  and 
clownishness. 

‘  At  length  a  place  opened  for  me,  where  some  training  in 
these  points  lay  within  my  reach.  One  of  our  senators  took 
his  mother-in-law  home  to  live  with  him  ;  she  had  still  two 
children  with  her,  a  son  and  a  daughter,  both  about  my  own 
age.  For  the  son  private  lessons  were  wTanted  ;  and  happily 
I  was  chosen  for  the  purpose. 

£  As  these  private  lessons  brought  me  in  a  gulden  monthly, 
I  now  began  to  defend  myself  a  little  against  the  .grumbling 
of  my  parents.  Hitherto  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing 
work  occasionally,  that  I  might  not  be  told  how  I  was  eating 
their  bread  for  nothing  ;  clothes,  and  oil  for  my  lamp,  I  had 
earned  by  teaching  in  the  house  :  these  things  I  could  now 
relinquish  ;  and  thus  my  condition  was  in  some  degree  im¬ 
proved.  On  the  other  hand,  I  had  now  opportunity  of  seeing 
persons  of  better  education.  I  gained  the  goodwill  of  the 
family  ;  so  that  besides  the  lesson-hours,  I  generally  lived 
there.  Such  society  afforded  me  some  culture,  extended  my 
conceptions  and  opinions,  and  also  polished  a  little  the  rude¬ 
ness  of  my  exterior.’ 

In  this  senatorial  house  he  must  have  been  somewhat  more 
at  ease  ;  for  he  now  very  privately  fell  in  love  with  his  pupil’s 
sister,  and  made  and  burnt  many  Greek  and  Latin  verses  in 
her  praise  ;  and  had  sweet  dreams  of  sometime  rising  £  so 
high  as  to  be  worthy  of  her.’  Even  as  matters  stood,  he 
acquired  her  friendship  and  that  of  her  mother.  But  the 
grand  concern,  for  the  present,  was  how  to  get  to  college  at 
Leipzig.  Old  Sebastian  had  promised  to  stand  good  on  this 
occasion ;  and  unquestionably  would  have  done  so  with  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEY  EE.  la 

greatest  pleasure,  liad  it  cost  him  nothing  :  but  he  promised 
and  promised,  without  doing  aught ;  above  all,  without  put¬ 
ting  his  hand  in  his  pocket ;  and  elsewhere  there  was  no  help 
or  resource.  At  length,  wearied  perhaps  with  the  boy’s  im¬ 
portunity,  he  determined  to  bestir  himself  ;  and  so  directed 
his  assistant,  who  was  just  making  a  journey  to  Leipzig,  to 
show  Heyne  the  road :  the  two  arrived  in  perfect  safety  ; 
Heyne  still  longing  after  cash,  for  of  his  own  he  had  only  two 
gulden ,  about  five  shillings  ;  but  the  assistant  left  him  in  a 
lodging-house,  and  went  his  way,  saying  he  had  no  farther 
orders  ! 

The  miseries  of  a  poor  scholar’s  life  were  now  to  be 
Heyne’s  portion  in  full  measure.  Ill-clothed,  totally  desti¬ 
tute  of  books,  with  five  shillings  in  his  purse,  he  found  him¬ 
self  set  down  in  the  Leipzig  University,  to  study  all  learning. 
Despondency  at  first  overmastered  the  poor  boy’s  heart,  and 
he  sank  into  sickness,  from  which  indeed  he  recovered  ;  but 
only,  he  says,  *  to  fall  into  conditions  of  life  where  he  became 
the  prey  of  desperation.’  How  he  contrived  to  exist,  much 
more  to  study,  is  scarcely  apparent  from  this  narrative.  The 
unhappy  old  Sebastian  did  at  length  send  him  some  pittance, 
and  at  rare  intervals  repeated,  the  dole  ;  yet  ever  with  his 
own  peculiar  grace  ;  not  till  after  unspeakable  solicitations  ; 
in  quantities  that  were  consumed  by  inextinguishable  debt, 
and  coupled  with  sour  admonitions  ;  nay,  on  one  occasion, 
addressed  externally,  *  A  Mr.  Heyne,  Etudiaxt  neglige  ant.’ 
For  half  a  year  he  would  leave  him  without  all  help  ;  then 
promise  to  come  and  see  what  he  was  doing  ;  come  accord¬ 
ingly,  and  return  without  leaving  him  a  penny  :  neither  could 
the  destitute  youth  ever  obtain  any  public  furtherance  ;  no 
freitisch  (free-table)  or  stipendium  was  to  be  procured.  Many 
times  he  had  no  regular  meal  ;  *  often  not  three  halfpence  for 
a  loaf  at  midday.’  He  longed  to  be  dead,  for  his  spirit  was 
often  sunk  in  the  gloom  of  darkness.  c  One  good  heart 
‘alone,’  says  he,  ‘I  found,  and  that  in  the  servant-girl  of  the 
‘  house  where  I  lodged.  She  laid  out  money  for  my  most 
‘  pressing  necessities,  and  risked  almost  all  she  had,  seeing 
‘me  in  such  frightful  want.  Could  I  but  find  thee  in  the 


16 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


‘  world  even  now,  thou  good  pious  soul,  that  I  might  repay 
*  thee  what  thou  then  didst  for  me  !  ’ 

Heyne  declares  it  to  be  still  a  mystery  to  him  how  he  stood 
all  this.  ‘What  carried  me  forward,’  continues  he,  ‘was  not 
‘ambition  ;  any  youthful  dream  of  one  day  taking  a  place,  or 
‘  aiming  to  take  one,  among  the  learned.  It  is  true,  the  bitter 
‘  feeling  of  debasement,  of  deficiency  in  education  and  exter- 
‘  nal  polish,  the  consciousness  of  awkwardness  in  social  life, 

‘  incessantly  accompanied  me.  But  my  chief  strength  lay  in 
‘  a  certain  defiance  of  Fate.  This  gave  me  courage  not  to 
‘  yield  ;  everywhere  to  try  to  the  uttermost  whether  I  was 
‘doomed  without  remedy  never  to  rise  from  this  degradation.’ 

Of  order  in  his  studies  there  could  be  little  expectation. 
He  did  not  even  know  what  profession  he  was  aiming  after  : 
old  Sebastian  was  for  theology  ;  and  Heyne,  though  himself 
averse  to  it,  affected  and  only  affected  to  comply  :  besides  he 
had  no  money  to  pay  class  fees  ;  it  was  only  to  open  lectures, 
or  at  most  to  ill-guarded  class-rooms,  that  he  could  gain  ad¬ 
mission.  Of  this  ill-guarded  sort  was  Winkler’s  ;  into  which 
poor  Heyne  insinuated  himself  to  hear  philosophy.  Alas,  the 
first  problem  of  all  philosophy,  the  keeping  of  soul  and  body 
together,  was  wellnigh  too  hard  for  him  !  Winkler’s  students 
were  of  a  riotous  description  ;  accustomed,  among  other  im¬ 
proprieties,  to  scharren,  scraping  with  the  feet.  One  day  they 
chose  to  receive  Heyne  in  this  fashion  ;  and  he  could  not 
venture  back.  ‘Nevertheless,’  adds  he,  simply  enough,  ‘the 
‘beadle  came  to  me  some  time  afterwards,  demanding  the  fee  : 
‘  I  had  my  own  shifts  to  take  before  I  could  raise  it.’ 

Ernesti  was  the  only  teacher  from  whom  he  derived  any 
benefit ;  the  man,  indeed,  whose  influence  seems  to  have 
shaped  the  whole  subsequent  course  of  his  studies.  By  dint 
of  excessive  endeavours  he  gained  admittance  to  Ernesti’s 
lectures  ;  and  here  first  learned,  says  Heeren,  ‘  what  inter¬ 
pretation  of  the  classics  meant.’  One  Crist  also,  a  strange, 
fantastic  Sir  Plume  of  a  Professor,  who  built  much  on  taste, 
elegance  of  manners  and  the  like,  took  some  notice  of  him, 
and  procured  him  a  little  employment  as  a  private  teacher. 
This  might  be  more  useful  than  his  advice  to  imitate  Scaligei\ 


THE  LIFE  OF  IIEYNE. 


IT 

and  read  the  ancients  so  as  to  begin  with  the  most  ancient, 
and  proceed  regularly  to  the  latest.  Small  service  it  can  do 
a  bedrid  man  to  convince  him  that  waltzing  is  preferable  to 
quadrilles  !  ‘  Crist’s  Lectures,’  says  he,  ‘  were  a  tissue  of  end- 

‘less  digressions,  which,  however,  now  and  then  contained 
‘  excellent  remarks.  ’ 

But  Heyne’s  best  teacher  was  himself.  No  pressure  of  dis¬ 
tresses,  no  want  of  books,  advisers  or  encouragement,  not 
hunger  itself  could  abate  his  resolute  perseverance.  What 
books  he  could  come  at  he  borrowed  ;  and  such  was  his  ex¬ 
cess  of  zeal  in  reading,  that  for  a  whole  half-year  he  allowed 
himself  only  two  nights  of  sleep  in  the  week,  till  at  last  a 
fever  obliged  him  to  be  more  moderate.  His  diligence  was 
undirected,  or  ill-diredted,  but  it  never  rested,  never  paused, 
and  must  at  length  prevail.  Fortune  had  cast  him  into  a 
cavern,  and  he  was  groping  darkly  round  ;  but  the  prisoner 
was  a  giant,  and  would  at  length  burst  forth  as  a  giant  into 
the  light  of  day.  Heyne,  without  any  clear  aim,  almost  with¬ 
out  any  hope,  had  set  his  heart  on  attaining  knowledge  ;  a 
force,  as  of  instinct,  drove  him  on,  and  no  promise  and  no 
threat  could  turn  him  back.  It  was  at  the  very  depth  of  his 
destitution,  when  he  had  not  ‘three  groschen  for  a  loaf  to 
dine  on,  that  he  refused  a  tutorship,  with  handsome  enough 
appointments,  but  which  was  to  have  removed  him  from  the 
University.  Crist  had  sent  for  him  one  Sunday,  and  made 
him  the  proposal :  ‘  There  arose  a  violent  struggle  within 
‘  me,’  says  he,  ‘  which  drove  me  to  and  fro  for  several  days  ; 

‘  to  this  hour  it  is  incomprehensible  to  me  where  I  found  reso- 
‘  lution  to  determine  on  renouncing  the  offer,  and  pursuing 
e  my  object  in  Leipzig.’  A  man  with  a  half  volition  goes 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  makes  no  way  on  the  smooth¬ 
est  road ;  a  man  with  a  whole  volition  advances  on  the 

• 

roughest,  and  will  reach  his  purpose  if  there  be  even  a  little 
wisdom  in  it. 

With  his  first  two  years’  residence  in  Leipzig,  Heyne’s  per¬ 
sonal  narrative  terminates  ;  not  because  the  nodus  of  the  his¬ 
tory  had  been  solved  then,  and  his  perplexities  cleared  up,  but 

simply-  because  he  had  not  found  time  to  relate  farther.  A 
2 


IS 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE. 


long  series  of  straitened  hopeless  days  were  yet  appointed 
him.  By  Ernesti’s  or  Crists  recommendation,  he  occasionally 
got  employment  in  giving  private  lessons  ;  at  one  time,  he 
worked  as  secretary  and  classical  hodman  to  ‘  Crusius,  the 
philosopher,’  who  felt  a  little  rusted  in  his  Greek  and  Latin  ; 
everywhere  he  found  the  scantiest  accommodation,  and  shift¬ 
ing  from  side  to  side  in  dreary  vicissitude  of  want,  had  to 
spin  out  an  existence,  warmed  by  no  ray  of  comfort,  except 
the  fire  that  burnt  or  smouldered  unquenchably  within  his 
own  bosom.  However,  he  had  now  chosen  a  profession,  that 
of  law,  at  which,  as  at  many  other  branches  of  learning,  he  was 
labouring  with  his  old  diligence.  Of  preferment  in  this 
province  there  was,  for  the  present,  little  or  no  hope  ;  but 
this  was  no  new  thing  with  Heyne.  By  degrees,  too,  his  fine 
talents  and  endeavours,  and  his  perverse  situation,  began  to 
attract  notice  and  sympathy  ;  and  here  and  there  some  well- 
wisher  had  his  eye  on  him,  and  stood  ready  to  do  him  a  ser¬ 
vice.  Two-and-twenty  years  of  penury  and  joyless  struggling 
had  now  passed  over  the  man  ;  how  many  more  such  might 
be  added  was  still  uncertain  ;  yet  surely  the  longest  winter  is 
followed  *by  a  spring. 

Another  trifling  incident,  little  better  than  that  old  c  pe¬ 
dantic  adventure,’  again  brought  about  important  changes  in 
Heyne’s  situation.  Among  his  favourers  in  Leipzig  had  been 
the  preacher  of  a  French  chapel,  one  Lacoste,  who,  at  this 
time,  was  cut  off  by  death.  Heyne,  it  is  said  in  the  real  sor¬ 
row  of  his  heart,  composed  a  long  Latin  Epicedium  on  that 
occasion  :  the  poem  had  nowise  been  intended  for  the  press  ; 
but  certain  hearers  of  the  deceased  were  so  pleased  with  it, 
that  they  had  it  printed,  and  this  in  the  finest  style  of  typog¬ 
raphy  and  decoration.  It  was  this  latter  circumstance,  not 
the  merit  of  the  verses,  which  is  said  to  have  been  consider¬ 
able,  that  attracted  the  attention  of  Count  Briilil,  the  well- 
known  prime  minister  and  favourite  of  the  Elector.  Briihl’s 
sons  were  studying  in  Leipzig  ;  he  was  pleased  to  express 
himself  contented  with  the  poem,  and  to  say,  that  he  should 
like  to  have  the  author  in  his  service.  A  prime  minister’s 
words  are  not  as  water  spilt  upon  the  ground,  which  cannot 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEINE. 


10 


be  gathered  ;  but  rather  as  heavenly  manna,  which  is  treas¬ 
ured  up  and  eaten,  not  without  a  religious  sentiment.  Heyne 
was  forthwith  written  to  from  all  quarters,  that  his  fortune 
was  made  :  he  had  but  to  show  himself  in  Dresden,  said  his 
friends  with  one  voice,  and  golden  showers  from  the  minis¬ 
terial  cornucopia  would  refresh  him  almost  to  saturation. 
For,  was  not  the  Count  taken  with  him ;  and  who  in  all 
Saxony,  not  excepting  Serene  Highness  itself,  could  gainsay 
the  Count  ?  Over-persuaded,  and  against  his  will,  Heyne  at 
length  determined  on  the  journey  ;  for  which,  as  an  indis¬ 
pensable  preliminary,  ‘  fifty-one  thalers  ’  had  to  be  borrowed  ; 
and  so,  following  this  hopeful  quest,  he  actually  arrived  at 
Dresden  in  April,  1752.  Count  Briihl  received  him  with  the 
most  captivating  smiles  ;  and  even  assured  him  in  wrords,  that 
he,  Count  Briihl,  would  take  care  of  him.  But  a  prime  min¬ 
ister  has  so  much  to  take  care  of  !  Heyne  danced  attendance 
all  spring  and  summer  :  happier  than  our  Johnson,  inasmuch 
as  he  had  not  to  4  blow  his  fingers  in  a  cold  lobby,’  the  weather 
being  warm  ;  and  obtained  not  only  promises,  but  useful  ex¬ 
perience  of  their  value  at  courts. 

He  was  to  be  made  a  secretary,  with  five  hundred,  with  four 
hundred,  or  even  with  three  hundred  thalers,  of  income  :  only, 
in  the  meanwiiile,  his  old  stock  of  fifty-one  had  quite  run  out, 
and  he  had  nothing  to  live  upon.  By  great  good  luck,  he 
procured  some  employment  in  his  old  craft,  private  teaching, 
which  helped  him  through  the  winter,  but  as  this  ceased,  he  re¬ 
mained  without  resources.  He  tried  working  for  the  book¬ 
sellers,  and  translated  a  French  romance,  and  a  Greek  one, 
Chariton’s  Loves  of  Chareas  and  Callirhoe  :  howrever,  his  emol¬ 
uments  vrouid  scarcely  furnish  him  with  salt,  not  to  speak  of 
victuals.  He  sold  his  few  books.  A  licentiate  in  divinity,  one 
Sonntag,  took  pity  on  his  houselessness,  and  shared  a  garret 
with  him ;  where,  as  there  was  no  unoccupied  bed,  Hejme 
slept  on  the  floor  with  a  few  folios  for  his  pillow7.  So  fared 
he  as_  to  lodging  :  in  regard  to  board,  he  gathered  empty 
pease-cods,  and  had  them  boiled  ;  this  was  not  unfrequently 
his  only  meal. — O  ye  poor  naked  wretches  !  what  would  Bishop 
Watson  say  to  this  ? — At  length,  by  dint  of  incredible  solicita- 


20, 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


tions,  Heyne,  in  the  autumn  of  1753,  obtained,  not  his  secre¬ 
taryship,  but  the  post  of  under-clerk  ( copyist )  in  the  Briihl 
Library,  with  one  hundred  thalers  of  salary  ;  a  sum  barely  suf¬ 
ficient  to  keep  in  life,  which,  indeed,  was  now  a  great  point 
with  him.  In  such  sort  was  this  young  scholar  ‘  taken  care  of.’ 

Nevertheless,  it  was  under  these  external  circumstances  that 
he  first  entered  on  his  proper  career,  and  forcibly  made  a 
place  for  himself  among  the  learned  men  of  his  day.  In  1754, 
he  prepared  his  edition  of  Tibullus,  which  was  printed  next 
year  at  Leipzig  ; 1  a  work  said  to  exhibit  remarkable  talent, 
inasmuch  as  ‘  the  rudiments  of  all  those  excellences,  by  which 
*  Heyne  afterwards  became  distinguished  as  a  commentator  on 
‘  the  classics,  are  more  or  less  apparent  in  it.’  The  most  illus¬ 
trious  Henry  Count  von  Briihl,  in  spite  of  the  dedication,  paid 
no  regard  to  this  Tibullus  ;  as  indeed  Germany  at  large  paid 
little  :  but,  in  another  country,  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  Rliu li¬ 
ken,  where  it'  was  rightly  estimated,  and  lay  waiting,  as  in  due 
season  appeared,  to  be  the  pledge  of  better  fortune  for  its 
author. 

Meanwhile  the  day  of  difficulty  for  Heyne  was  yet  far  from 
past.  The  profits  of  his  Tibullus  served  to  cancel  some  debts  ; 
on  the  strength  of  the  hundred  thalers,  the  spindle  of  Clotho 
might  still  keep  turning,  though  languidly ;  but,  ere  long,  new 
troubles  arose.  His  superior  in  the  Library  was  one  Rost,  a 
poetaster,  atheist,  and  gold-maker,  who  corrupted  his  religious 
principles,  and  plagued  him  with  caprices  :  over  the  former 
evil  Heyne  at  length  triumphed,  and  became  a  rational  Chris¬ 
tian  ;  but  the  latter  was  an  abiding  grievance  :  not,  indeed, 
forever,  for  it  was  removed  by  a  greater.  In  1756,  the  Seven- 
Years  War  broke  out ;  Frederick  advanced  towards  Dresden, 
animated  with  especial  fury  against  Briihl ;  whose  palaces  ac¬ 
cordingly  in  a  few  months  were  reduced  to  ashes,  as  his  70,- 
000  splendid  volumes  were  annihilated  by  fire  and  by  water,2 

1  Albii  Tibulli  quae  extant  Carmina ,  noris  curis  castigata.  Illustrissimo 
Domino  Henrico  Comiti  cle  Briihl  inscripta.  Lipsice ,  1755. 

2  One  rich  cargo,  on  its  way  to  Hamburg,  sank  in  the  Elbe  ;  another 
still  more  valuable  portion  had  been,  for  safety,  deposited  in  a  vault  ; 
through  which  passed  certain  pipes  of  artificial  water-works;  these  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


21 


and  all  his  domestics  and  dependants  turned  to  the  street 
without  appeal. 

Heyne  had  lately  been  engaged  in  studying  Epictetus,  and 
publishing,  ad  fidem  Codd.  Mnspt.,  an  edition  of  his  Enchi¬ 
ridion  ; 1  from  wdiich,  quote  Heeren,  his  great  soul  had  ac¬ 
quired  much  stoical  nourishment.  Such  nourishment  never 
comes  wrong  in  life  ;  and,  surely,  at  this  time  Heyne  had 
need  of  it  all.  However,  he  struggled  as  he  had  been  wont : 
translated  pamphlets,  sometimes  wrote  newspaper  articles ; 
eat  when  he  had  wherewithal,  and  resolutely  endured  when 
he  had  not.  By  and  by,  Babener,  to  whom  he  was  a  little 
known,  offered  him  a  tutorship  in  the  family  of  a  Herr  von 
Sehonberg ;  w7hicli  Heyne,  not  without  reluctance,  accepted. 
Tutorships  were  at  all  times  his  aversion  :  his  rugged  plebeian 
proud  spirit x made  business  of  that  sort  grievous:  but  Want 
stood  over  him,  like  an  armed  man,  and  was  not  to  be  rea¬ 
soned  with. 

In  this  Sehonberg  family,  a  novel  and  unexpected  series  of 
fortunes  awnited  him  ;  but  whether  for  weal  or  for  woe  might 
still  be  hard  to  determine.  The  name  of  Theresa  Weiss  has 
become  a  sort  of  classical  word  in  biography  ;  her  union  with 
Heyne  forms,  as  it  wrere,  a  green  cypress-and-myrtle  oasis  in 
his  otherwise  hard  and  stony  history.  It  was  here  that  he  first 
met  with  her  ;  that  they  learned  to  love  each  other.  She  was 
the  orphan  of  a  c  professor  on  the  lute  ;  ’  had  long,  amid  pov¬ 
erty  and  afflictions,  been  trained,  like  the  stoics,  to  bear  and 
forbear  ;  was  now  in  her  twenty-seventh  year,  and  the  hum¬ 
ble  companion,  as  she  had  once  been  the  school-mate,  of  the 
Frau  von  Sehonberg,  whose  young  brother  Heyne  had  come 
to  teach.  Their  first  interview  may  be  described  in  his  own 
words,  which  Heeren  is  here  again  happily  enabled  to  intro¬ 
duce  : 

‘  It  was  on  the  10th  of  October  (her  future  death-day  !)  that 
I  first  entered  the  Sehonberg  house.  Towards  what  moun- 

cannon  broke,  and  when  the  vault  came  to  be  opened,  all  was  reduced 
to  pi  \  d  mould.  The  bomb-sliells  burnt  the  remainder. 

1  Lipsiae,  1756.  The  Codices,  or  rather  the  Codex,  was  in  Bruhl’s  Li- 


22 


TEE  LIFE  OF  EEYNE. 


tains  of  mischances  was  I  now  proceeding  !  To  what  endless 
tissues  of  good  and  evil  hap  was  the  thread  here  taken  up  ! 
Could  1  fancy  that,  at  this  moment,  Providence  wras  deciding 
the  fortune  of  my  life  !  I  was  ushered  into  a  room,  where 
sat  several  ladies  engaged,  with  gay  youthful  sportiveness,  in 
friendly  confidential  talk.  Frau  von  Schonberg,  but  lately 
married,  yet  at  this  time  distant  from  her  husband,  was  pre¬ 
paring  for  a  journey  to  him  at  Prague,  where  his  business 
detained  him.  On  her  brow  still  beamed  the  pure  innocence 
of  youth  ;  in  her  eyes  you  saw  a  glad  soft  vernal  sky  ;  a  smil¬ 
ing  loving  complaisance  accompanied  her  discourse.  This 
too  seemed  one  of  those  souls,  clear  and  uncontaminated  as 
they  come  from  the  hands  of  their  Maker.  By  reason  of  her 
brother,  in  her  tender  love  of  him,  I  must  have  been  to  her 
no  unimportant  guest. 

‘Beside  her  stood  a  young  lady,  dignified  in  aspect,  of  fair, 
slender  shape,  not  regular  in  feature,  yet  soul  in  even7  glance. 
Her  words,  her  looks,  her  every  movement  impressed  you 
with  respect ;  another  sort  of  respect  than  what  is  paid  to 
rank  and  birth.  Good  sense,  good  feeling  disclosed  itself  in 
all  she  did.  You  forgot  that  more  beauty,  more  softness, 
might  have  .been  demanded ;  you  felt  yourself  under  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  something  noble,  something  stately  and  earnest, 
something  decisive  that  lay  in  her  look,  in  her  gestures ;  not 
less  attracted  to  her,  than  compelled  to  reverence  her. 

*  More  than  esteem  the  first  sight  of  Theresa  did  not  in¬ 
spire  me  with.  What  I  noticed  most  were  the  efforts  she 
made  to  relieve  my  embarrassment,  the  fruit  of  my  downbent 
pride,  and  to  keep  me,  a  stranger,  entering  among  familiar  ac¬ 
quaintances,  in  easy  conversation.  Her  good  heart  reminded 
her  how  much  the  unfortunate  requires  encouragement ;  es¬ 
pecially  when  placed,  as  I  was,  among  those  to  whose  protec¬ 
tion  he  must  look  up.  Thus  was  my  first  kindness  for  her 
awakened  by  that  good  heartedness,  which  made  her  among 
thousands  a  beneficent  angel.  She  was  one  at  this  moment, 
to  myself  ;  for  I  twice  received  letters  from  an  unknown  hand, 
containing  money,  which  greatly  alleviated  my  difficulties. 

‘  In  a  few  days,  oil  the  14th  of  October,  I  commenced  my 
task  of  instruction.  Her  I  did  not  see  again  till  the  follow¬ 
ing  spring,  when  she  returned  with  her  friend  from  Prague  ; 
and  then  only  once  or  twice,  as  she  soon  accompanied  Frau 
von  Schonberg  to  the  country,  to  flEnsdorf  in  Oberlausitz 
(Upper  Lusatia).  They  left  us,  after  it  had  been  settled  that 
I  was  to  follow  them  in  a  few  days  with  my  pupil.  My  young 


THE  LIFE  OF  IIE THE. 


23 


heart  joyed  in  the  prospect  of  rural  pleasures,  of  which  I  had, 
from  of  old,  cherished  a  thousand  delightful  dreams.  I  still 
remember  the  6th  of  May,  when  we  set  out  for  hEnsdorf. 

‘  The  society  of  two  cultivated  females,  who  belonged  to 
the  noblest  of  their  sex,  and  the  endeavour  to  acquire  their 
esteem,  contributed  to  form  my  own  character.  Nature  and 
religion  were  the  objects  of  my  daily  contemplation  ;  I  began 
to  act  and  live  on  principles,  of  which,  till  now,  I  had  never 
thought  :  these  two  formed  the  subject  of  our  constant  dis¬ 
course.  Lovely  Nature  and  solitude  exalted  our  feelings  to 
a  pitch  of  pious  enthusiasm. 

c  Sooner  than  I,  Theresa  discovered  that  her  friendship  for 
me  was  growing  into  a  passion.  Her  natural  melancholy 
now  seized  her  heart  more  keenly  than  ever  :  often  our  glad 
hours  were  changed  into  very  gloomy  and  sad  ones.  When¬ 
ever  our  conversation  chanced  to  turn  on  religion  (she  was 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith),  I  observed  that  her  grief  be¬ 
came  more  apparent.  I  noticed  her  redouble  her  devotions  ; 
and  sometimes  found  her  in  solitude,  weeping  and  praying 
with  such  a  fulness  of  heart  as  I  had  never  seen.’ 

Theresa  and  her  lover,  or  at  least  beloved,  wrere  soon  sep¬ 
arated,  and  for  a  long  while  kept  much  asunder  ;  partly  by 
domestic  arrangements,  still  more  by  the  tumults  of  war. 
H'eyne  attended  his  pupil  to  the  WTittenberg  University,  and 
lived  there  a  year  ;  studying  for  his  own  behoof,  chiefly  in 
philosophy  and  German  history,  and  with  more  profit,  as  he 
says,  than  of  old.  Theresa  and  he  kept  up  a  correspondence, 
which  often  passed  into  melancholy  and  enthusiasm.  The 
Prussian  cannon  drove  him  out  of  Wittenberg  :  his  pupil  and 
he  witnessed  the  bombardment  of  the  place  from  the  neigh¬ 
bourhood  ;  and,  having  wTaited  till  their  University  became 
‘  a  heap  of  rubbish,’  had  to  retire  elsewhither  for  accommoda¬ 
tion.  The  young  man  subsequently  went  to  Erlangen,  then 
to  Gottingen.  Heyne  remained  again  without  employment, 
alone  in  Dresden.  Theresa  was  living  in  his  neighbourhood, 
lovely  and  sad  as  ever ;  but  a  new  bombardment  drove  hex- 
also  to  a  distance.  She  left  her  little  property  with  Heyne  ; 
who  removed  it  to  his  lodging,  and  determined  to  abide  the 
Prussian  siege,  having  indeed  no  other  resource/  The  sack 
of  cities  looks  so  well  on  paper,  that  we  must  find  a  little 


24 


THE  LIFE  OF  LIE  TEE. 


space  here  for  Heyne’s  account  of  liis  experience  in  this  busi¬ 
ness  ;  though  it  is  none  of  the  brightest  accounts ;  and  in¬ 
deed  contrasts  but  poorly  with  Rabener’s  brisk  sarcastic  nar¬ 
rative  of  the  same  adventure  ;  for  he  too  was  cannonaded  out 
of  Dresden  at  this  time,  and  lost  house  and  home,  and  books 
and  manuscripts,  and  all  but  good  humour. 

‘  The  Prussians  advanced  meanwhile,  and  on  the  18th  of 
July  (1760)  the  bombardment  of  Dresden  began.  Several 
nights  I  passed,  in  company  with  others,  in  a  tavern,  and  the 
days  in  my  room  ;  so  that  I  could  hear  the  balls  from  the 
battery,  as  they  flew  through  the  streets,  whizzing  past  my 
windows.  An  indifference  to  danger  and  to  life  took  such 
possession  of  me,  that  on  the  last  morning  of  the  siege,  I 
went  early  to  bed,  and,  amid  the  friglitfullest  crashing  of 
bombs  and  grenades,  fell  fast  asleep  of  fatigue,  and  lay  sound 
till  midday.  On  awakening,  I  huddled-on  my  clothes,  and 
ran  down  stairs,  but  found  the  whole  house  deserted.  I  had 
returned  to  my  room,  considering  what  I  was  to  do,  whither, 
at  all  events,  I  was  to  take  my  chest,  when,  with  a  tremen¬ 
dous  crash,  a  bomb  came  down  in  the  court  of  the  house ; 
did  not,  indeed,  set  fire  to  it,  but  on  all  sides  shattered  every¬ 
thing  to  pieces.  The  thought,  that  where  one  bomb  fell, 
more  would  soon  follow,  gave  me  wings ;  I  darted  down 
stairs,  found  the  liouse-door  locked,  ran  to  and  fro  ;  at  last 
got  entrance  into  one  of  the  under  rooms,  and  sprang  through 
the  window  into  the  street. 

‘  Empty  as  the  street  where  I  lived  had  been,  I  found  the 
principal  thoroughfares  crowded  with  fugitives.  Amidst  the 
whistling  of  balls,  I  ran  along  the  Schlossgasse  towards  the 
Elbe-Bridge,  and  so  forward  to  the  Neustadt,  out  of  which 
the  Prussians  had  now  been  forced  to  retreat.  Glad  that  I 
had  leave  to  rest  anywhere,  I  passed  one  part  of  the  night  on 
the  floor  of  an  empty  house ;  the  other,  witnessing  the  fright¬ 
ful  light  of  flying  bombs,  and  a  burning  city. 

‘  At  break  of  day,  a  little  postern  was  opened  by  the  Aus¬ 
trian  guard,  to  let  the  fugitives  get  out  of  the  walls.  The 
captain,  in  liis  insolence,  called  the  people  Lutheran  dogs,  and 
with,  this  nickname  gave  each  of  us  a  stroke  as  we  passed 
through  the  gate. 

‘  I  "was  -now  at  large  ;  and  the  thought,  Whither  bound  ? 
began  for  the  first  time  to  employ  me.  As  I  had  run,  indeed 
leapt  from  mv  house,  in  the  night  of  terror,  I  had  carried 


TEE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


25 


witli  me  no  particle  of  my  property,  and  not  a  groschen  of 
money.  Only  in  hurrying  along  the  street,  I  had  chanced  to 
see  a  tavern  open  ;  it  was  an  Italian’s,  where  I  used  to  pass 
the  nights.  Here  espying  a  fur  cloak,  I  had  picked  it  up,  and 
thrown  it  about  me.  With  this  I  walked  along,  in  one  of  the 
sultriest  days,  from  the  Neustadt,  over  the  sand  and  the  moor, 
and  took  the  road  for  iEnsdorf,  where  Theresa  with  her  friend 
was  staying ;  the  mother-in-law  of  the  latter  being  also  on  a 
visit  to  them.  In  the  fiercest  heat  of  the  sun,  through  tracts 
of  country  silent  and  deserted,  I  walked  four  leagues  to 
Bischopfwerda,  where  I  had  to  sleep  in  an  inn  among  carriers. 
Towards  midnight  arrived  a  postilion  with  return-horses  ;  I 
asked  him  to  let  me  ride  one  ;  and  with  him  I  proceeded,  till 
my  road  turned  off  from  the  highway.  All  day,  I  heard  the 
shots  at  poor  Dresden  re-echoing  in  the  hills. 

‘  Curiosity  at  first  made  my  reception  at  iEnsdorf  very 
warm.  But  as  I  came  to  appear  in  the  character  of  an  alto¬ 
gether  destitute  man,  the  family  could  see  in  me  only  a  future 
burden  :  no  invitation  to  continue  with  them  followed.  In  a 
few  days  came  a  chance  of  conveyance,  by  a  waggon  for  Neu¬ 
stadt,  to  a  certain  Frau  von  Fletsclier  a  few  miles  on  this  side 
of  it  ;  I  was  favoured  with  some  old  linen  for  the  road.  The 
good  Theresa  suffered  unspeakably  under  these  proceedings  : 
the  noble  lady,  her  friend,  had  not  been  allowed  to  act  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  dictates  of  her  own  heart. 

‘  Not  till  now  did  I  feel  wholly  how  miserable  I  was.  Spurn¬ 
ing  at  destiny,  and  hardening  my  heart,  I  entered  on  this 
journey.  With  the  Frau  von  Fletscher  too  my  abode  was 
brief ;  and  by  the  first  opportunity  I  returned  to  Dresden. 
There  was  still  a  possibility  that  my  lodging  might  have  been 
saved.  With  heavy  heart  I  entered  the  city  ;  hastened  to  the 
place  where  I  had  lived,  and  found — a  heap  of  ashes.’ 

Heyne  took  up  his  quarters  in  the  vacant  rooms  of  the  Briihl 
Library.  Some  friends  endeavoured  to  alleviate  his  distress  ; 
but  war  and  rumours  of  war  continued  to  harass  him,  and 
drive  him  to  and  fro  ;  and  his  Theresa,  afterwards  also  a  fugi¬ 
tive,  was  now  as  poor  as  himself.  She  heeded  little  the  loss 
of  her  property  ;  but  inward  sorrow  and  so  many  outward 
agitations  preyed  hard  upon  her ;  in  the  winter  she  fell  vio¬ 
lently  sick  at  Dresden,  was  given  up  by  her  physicians  ;  re¬ 
ceived  extreme  unction  according  to  the  rites  of  her  church ; 
and  was  for  some  hours  believed  to  be  dead.  Nature,  how- 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


26 

ever,  again  prevailed  :  a  crisis  had  occurred  in  the  mind  as 
well  as  in  the  body ;  for  with  her  first  returning  strength, 
Theresa  declared  her  determination  to  renounce  the  Catholic, 
and  publicly  embrace  the  Protestant  faith.  Argument,  repre¬ 
sentation  of  worldly  disgrace  and  loss  were  unavailing :  she 
could  now,  that  all  her  friends  were  to  be  estranged,  have 
little  hope  of  being  wedded  to  Heyne  on  earth  ;  but  she 
trusted  that  in  auother  scene  a  like  creed  might  unite  them 
in  a  like  destiny.  He  himself  fell  ill ;  and  only  escaped  death 
by  her  nursing.  Persisting  the  more  in  her  purpose,  she  took 
priestly  instruction,  and  on  the  30th  of  May,  in  the  Evangeli¬ 
cal  Schlosskirehe,  solemnly  professed  her  new  creed. 

‘Reverent  admiration  filled  me,’  says  he,  ‘as  I  beheld  the 
peace  and  stedfastness  with  which  she  executed  her  deter¬ 
mination  ;  and  still  more  the  courage  with  which  she  bore  the 
consequences  of  it.  She  saw  herself  altogether  cast  out  from 
her  family  ;  forsaken  by  her  acquaintance,  by  every  one  ;  and 
by  the  fire  deprived  of  all  she  had.  Her  courage  exalted  me 
to  a  higher  duty,  and  admonished  me  to  do  mine.  Impru¬ 
dently  I  had,  in  former  conversations,  first  awakened  her  relig¬ 
ious  scruples  ;  the  passion  for  me,  which  had  so  much  in¬ 
creased  her  enthusiasm,  increased  her  melancholy  ;  even  the 
secret  thought  of  belonging  more  closely  to  me  by  sameness 
of  belief  had  unconsciously  influenced  her.  In  a  word,  I 
formed  the  determination  which  could  not  but  expose  me  to 
universal  censure  :  helpless  as  I  was,  I  united  my  destiny  with 
hers.  We  wrere  wedded  at  iEnsdorf,  on  the  4th  of  June 
1761.’ 

This  was  a  bold  step,  but  a  right  one  :  Theresa,  had  now 
no  stay  but  him  ;  it  behoved  them  to  struggle,  and  if  better 
might  not  be,  to  sink  together.  Theresa,  in  this  narrative 
appears  to  us  a  noble,  interesting  being ;  noble  not  in  senti¬ 
ment  only,  but  in  action  and  suffering  ;  a  fair  flower  trodden 
down  by  misfortune,  but  yielding,  like  flowers,  only  the 
sweeter  perfume  for  being  crushed,  and  which  it  would  have 
been  a  blessedness  to  raise  up  and  cherish  into  free  growth. 
Yet,  in  plain  prose,  we  must  question  whether  the  two  were 
happier  than  others  in  their  union :  both  were  quick  of  tem- 
j}er  ;  she  was  all  a  heavenly  light,  he  in  good  part  a  hard 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


27 


terrestrial  mass,  which  perhaps  she  could  never  wholly  illu¬ 
minate  ;  the  balance  of  the  love  seems  to  have  lain  much 
on  her  side.  Nevertheless  Heyne  was  a  stedfast,  true  and 
kindly,  if  no  ethereal  man  ;  he  seems  to  have  loved  his  wife 
honestly  ;  and  so,  amid  light  and  shadow,  they  made  their 
pilgrimage  together,  if  not  better  than  other  mortals,  not 
worse,  which  was  to  have  been  feared. 

Neither,  for  the  present,  did  the  pressure  of  distress  weigh 
heavier  on  either  than  it  had  done  before.  He  worked  dili¬ 
gently,  as  he  found  scope,  for  his  old  Mecaenases,  the  Book¬ 
sellers  ;  the  war-clouds  grew  lighter,  or  at  least  the  young 
pair  better  used  to  them  ;  friends  also  were  kind,  often  as¬ 
sisting  and  hospitably  entertaining  them.  On  occasion  of  one 
such  visit  to  the  family  of  a  Herr  von  Loben,  there  occurred  a 
little  trait,  which  for  the  sake  of  Theresa  must  not  be  omitted. 
Heyne  and  she  had  spent  some  happy  weeks  with  their  in¬ 
fant,  in  this  country-house,  when  the  alarm  of  war  drove  the 
Yon  Lobens  from  their  residence,  which  with  the  management 
of  its  concerns  they  left  to  Heyne.  He  says,  he  gained  some 
notion  of  *  land-economy  5  hereby  ;  and  Heeren  states  that  he 
had  ‘  a  candle-manufactory  5  to  oversee.  But  to  our  incident : 

‘Soon  after  the  departure  of  the  family,  there  came  upon 
us  an  irruption  of  Cossacks, — disguised  Prussians,  as  we  sub¬ 
sequently  learned.  After  drinking  to  intoxication  in  the  cel¬ 
lars,  they  set  about  plundering.  Pursued  by  them,  I  ran  up 
stairs,  and  no  door  being  open  but  that  of  the  room  where 
my  wife  was  with  her  infant,  I  rushed  into  it.  She  arose 
courageously,  and  placed  herself,  with  the  child  on  her  arm, 
in  the  door  against  the  robbers.  This  courage  saved  me,  and 
the  treasure  which  lay  hidden  in  the  chamber.5 

“  O  thou  lioness  ! 55  said  Attila  Sclimelzle,  on  occasion  of  a 
similar  rescue,  “why  hast  thou  never  been  in  any  deadly  peril, 
that  I  might  show ‘thee  the  lion  in  thy  husband  ?.” 

But  better  days  were  dawning.  c  On  our  return  to  Dresden,’ 
says  Heyne,  ‘  I  learned  that  inquiries  had  been  made  after  me 
from  Hanover  ;  I  knew  not  for  what  reason.5  The  reason  by 
and  by  came  to  light.  Gessner,  Professor  of  Eloquence  in 
Gottingen,  was  dead ;  and  a  successor  was  wanted.  These 


28 


THE  LIFE  OF  IIEYNE. 


tilings,  it  would  appear,  cause  difficulties  in  Hanover,  wliicli 
in  many  other  places  are  little  felt.  But  the  Prime  Minister 
Munchhausen  had  as  good  as  founded  the  Georgia  Augusta 
himself  ;  and  he  was  wont  to  watch  over  it  with  singular  anxi¬ 
ety.  The  noted  and  notorious  Klotz  was  already  there,  as  as¬ 
sistant  to  Gessner  ;  ‘  but  his  beautiful  latinity,’  says  Heeren, 
‘  did  not  dazzle  Munchhausen  ;  Klotz,  with  his  pugnacity, 
‘was  not  thought  of.’  The  Minister  applied  to  Ernesti  for 
advice  :  Ernesti  knew  of  no  fit  man  in  Germany ;  but  recom¬ 
mended  Rhunken  of  Leyden,  or  Saxe  of  Utrecht.  Rhunken 
refused  to  leave  his  country,  and  added  these  words  :  ‘  But 

‘  why  do  you  seek  out  of  Germany,  what  Germany  itself  offers 
‘  you  ?  Why  not,  for  Gessner’s  successor,  take  Christian  Gott- 
‘lob  Heyne,  that  true  pupil  of  Ernesti,  and  man  of  fine  talent 
‘  ( excellent!  virum  ingenio),  who  has  shown  how  much  he 
‘  knows  of  Latin  literature  by  his  Tibullus  ;  of  Greek,  by  his 
‘  Epictetus  ?  In  my  opinion,  and  that  of  the  greatest  Hem- 
‘sterhuis  (Hemsterhusii  rov  i raw),  Heyne  is  the  only  one  that 
‘can  replace  your  Gessner.  Nor  let  any  one  tell  me  that 
‘  Heyne’s  fame  is  not  sufficiently  illustrious  and  extended. 
‘Believe  me,  there  is  in  this  man  such  a  richness  of  genius 
‘  and  learning,  that  ere  long  all  Europe  will  ring  with  his 
‘  praises.’ 

This  courageous  and  generous  verdict  of  Rhunken’s  in  favour 
of  a  person  as  yet  little  known  to  the  world,  and  to  him  known 
only  by  his  writings,  decided  the  matter.  ‘  Munchhausen,’  says 
our  Heeren,  ‘  believed  in  the  boldly  prophesying  man.’  Not 
without  difficulty  Heyne  was  unearthed  ;  and  after  various  ex¬ 
cuses  on  account  of  competence  on  his  part, — for  he  had  lost 
all  his  books  and  papers  in  the  siege  of  Dresden,  and  sadly 
forgotten  his  Latin  and  Greek  in  so  many  tumults, — and  va¬ 
rious  prudential  negotiations  about  dismission  from  the  Saxon 
service,  and  salary  and  privilege  in  the  Hanoverian,  he  at 
length  formally  received  his  appointment  ;  and  some  three 
months  after,  in  June  1763,  settled  in  Gottingen,  with  an  of¬ 
ficial  income  of  eight  hundred  thalers  ;  which,  it  appears,  was 
by  several  additions,  in  the  course  of  time,  increased  to  twelve 
hundred. 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE. 


29 


Here  then  had  Heyne  at  last  got  to  land.  His  long  life 
was  henceforth  as  quiet,  and  fruitful  in  activity  and  comfort, 
as  the  past  period  of  it  had  been  desolate  and  full  of  sorrows. 
He  never  left  Gottingen,  though  frequently  invited  to  do  so, 
and  sometimes  with  highly  tempting  offers ; 1  but  continued 
in  his  place,  busy  in  his  vocation  ;  growing  in  influence,  in 
extent  of  connexion  at  home  and  abroad  ;  till  Rhunken’s  pre¬ 
diction  might  almost  be  reckoned  fulfilled  to  the  letter  ;  for 
Heyne  in  his  own  department  was  without  any  equal  in  Eu¬ 
rope. 

However,  his  history  from  this  point,  even  because  it  was 
so  happy  for  himself,  must  lose  most  of  its  interest  for  the 
general  reader.  Heyne  has  now  become  a  Professor,  and  a 
regularly  progressive  man  of  learning  ;  has  a  fixed  household, 
has  rents  and  comings  in  ;  it  is  easy  to  fancy  how  that  man 
might  flourish  in  calm  sunshine  of  prosperity,  whom  in  ad¬ 
versity  we  saw  growing  in  spite  of  every  storm.  Of  his  pro¬ 
ceedings  in  Gottingen,  his  reform  of  the  Royal  Society  of 
Sciences,  his  editing  of  the  Gelehrte  Anzeigen  (Gazette  of 
Learning),  his  exposition  of  the  classics  from  Virgil  to  Pin¬ 
dar,  his  remodelling  of  the  Library,  his  passive  quarrels  with 
Voss,  his  armed  neutrality  with  Micliaelis  ;  of  all  this  we 
must  say  little.  The  best  fruit  of  his  endeavours  lies  before 
the  world,  in  a  long  series  of  Works,  which  among  us,  as  well 
as  elsewhere,  are  known  and  justly  appreciated.  On  looking 
over  them,  the  first  thing  that  strikes  us  is  astonishment  at 
Heyne’s  diligence  ;  which,  considering  the  quantity  and  qual¬ 
ity  of  his  writings,  might  have  appeared  singular  even  in  one 
who  had  been  without  other  duties.  Yet  Heyne’s  office  in¬ 
volved  him  in  the  most  laborious  researches  :  he  wrote  letters 
by  the  hundred  to  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  on  all  conceiv¬ 
able  subjects  ;  be  had  three  classes  to  teach  daily  ;  he  ap- 

1  He  was  invited  successively  to  be  Professor  at  Cassel,  and  at  Kloster- 
bergen ;  to  be  Librarian  at  Dresden ;  and,  most  flattering  of  all,  to  be 
Prokanzler  in  the  University  of  Copenhagen,  and  virtual  Director  of 
Education  over  all  Denmark.  He  had  a  struggle  on  this  last  occasion, 
but  the  Georgia  Augusta  again  prevailed.  Some  increase  of  salary  usu¬ 
ally  follows  such  refusals  ;  it  did  not  in  this  instance. 


30 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  IIEYNE. 


pointed  professors,  for  liis  recommendation  was  ail-powerful ; 
superintended  schools  ;  for  a  long  time  the  inspection  of  the 
Freitische  was  laid  on  him,  and  he  had  cooks’  bills  to  settle, 
and  hungry  students  to  satisfy  with  his  purveyance.  Besides 
all  which,  he  accomplished,  in  the  way  of  publication,  as  fol¬ 
lows  : 

In  addition  to  his  Tibullus  and  Epictetus,  the  first  of  which 
went  through  three,  the  second  through  two  editions,  each 
time  with  large  extensions  and  improvements  : 

His  Virgil  ,(P.  Vikgilius  Maeo  Varietate  Lectionis  et  perpetud 
Annotatione  illustratus),  in  various  forms,  from  1767  to  1803  ; 
no  fewer  than  six  editions. 

His  Pliny  {Ex  C.  Plinii  Secundi  Historid  Naturali  excerpta , 
quce  ad  Artes  spectant)  ;  two  editions,  1790,  1811. 

His  Apollodorus  (Apollodoki  Atheniensis  Bibliothecae  Libri 
tres,  &c.) ;  two  editions,  1787,  1803. 

His  Pindar  (Pindabi  Carmina ,  cum  Lectionis  Varietate,  cura- 
vit  Ch.  G.  H.)  ;  three  editions,  1774,  1797,  1798,  the  last  with 
the  Scholia,  the  Fragments,  a  Translation,  and  Hermann’s 
Xnq.  De  Metris. 

His  Conon  and  Parthenius  (Cononis  Narrationes,  et  Pae- 
thenii  Narrationes  amatorice),  1798. 

And  lastly  his  Homer  (Homeei  Ilias,  cum  bred  Annota¬ 
tione)  ;  8  volumes,  1802  ;  and  a  second,  contracted  edition,  in 
2  volumes,  1804. 

Next,  almost  a  cartload  of  Translations  ;  of  which  we  shall 
mention  only  his  version,  said  to  be  with  very  important 
improvements,  of  our  Universal  History  by  Guthrie  and  Gray. 

Then  some  ten  or  twelve  thick  volumes  of  Prolusions,  Eulo¬ 
gies,  Essays;  treating  of  all  subjects,  from  the  French  Direc¬ 
torate  to  the  Chest  of  Cypselus.  Of  these,  Six  Volumes  are 
known  in  a  separate  shape,  under  the  title  of  Opuscula  ;  and 
contain  some  of  Heyne’s  most  valuable  writings. 

And  lastly,  to  crown  the  whole  with  one  most  surprising 
item,  seven  thousand  five  hundred  (Heeren  says  from  seven 
to  eight  thousand)  Reviews  of  Books,  in  the  Gottingen  Gel- 
ehrte  Anzeigen.  Shame  on  us  degenerate  Editors!  Here  of 
itself  was  work  for  a  lifetime  ! 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


31 


To  expect  that  elegance  of  composition  should  prevail  in  these 
multifarious  performances  were  unreasonable  enough.  Heyne 
wrote  very  indifferent  German  ;  and  his  Latin,  by  much  the 
more  common  vehicle  in  his  learned  works,  flowed  from  him 
with  a  copiousness  which  could  not  be  Ciceronian.  At  the 
same  time,  these  volumes  are  not  the  folios  of  a  Montfaucon, 
not  mere  classical  ore  and  slag,  but  regularly  smelted  metal ; 
for  most  part  exhibiting  the  essence,  and  only  the  essence,  of 
very  great  research  ;  and  enlightened  by  a  philosophy  which, 
if  it  does  not  always  wisely  order  its  results,  has  looked  far 
and  deeply  in  collecting  them. 

To  have  performed  so  much,  evinces  on  the  part  of  Heyne 
no  little  mastership  in  the  great  art  of  husbanding  time. 
Heeren  gives  us  sufficient  details  on  this  subject;  explains 
Heyne’s  adjustment  of  his  hours  and  various  occupations  : 
how  he  rose  at  five  o’clock,  and  worked  all  the  day,  and  all 
the  year,  with  the  regularity  of  a  steeple  clock  ;  nevertheless, 
how  patiently  he  submitted  to  interruptions  from  strangers, 
or  extraneous  business  ;  how  briefly,  yet  smoothly,  he  con¬ 
trived  to  despatch  such  interruptions ;  how  his  letters  were 
indorsed  when  they  came  to  hand  ;  and  lay  in  a  special 
drawer  till  they  were  answered  ;  nay  we  have  a  description 
of  his  whole  ‘  locality,’  his  bureau  and  book-shelves  and  port¬ 
folios,  his  very  bed  and  strongbox  are  not  forgotten.  To  the 
busy  man,  especially  the  busy  man  of  letters,  these  details 
are  far  from  uninteresting  ;  if  we  judge  by  the  result,  many 
of  Heyne’s  arrangements  might  seem  worthy  not  of  notice 
only,  but  of  imitation. 

His  domestic  circumstances  continued,  on  the  wdiole,  highly 
favourable  for  such  activity ;  though  not  now  more  than 
formerly  were  they  exempted  from  the  common  lot ;  but 
still  had  several  hard  changes  to  encounter.  In  1775,  he  lost 
liis  Theresa,  after  long  ill-health  ;  an  event  which,  stoic  as  he 
was,  struck  heavily  and  dolefully  on  his  heart.  He  forebore 
not  to  shed  some  natural  tears,  though  from  eyes  little  used 
to  the  melting  mood.  Nine  days  after  her  death,  he  thus 
writes  to  a  friend,  with  a  solemn  mournful  tenderness,  which 
none  of  us  will  deny  to  be  genuine : 


THE  LIFE  OF  1IETNE. 


e>9 

O  jj 

‘  I  have  looked  upon  the  grave  that  covers  the  remains  of 
my  Theresa :  what  a  thousandfold  pang,  beyond  the  pitch  of 
human  feeling,  pierced  through  my  soul !  How  did  my 
limbs  tremble  as  I  approached  this  holy  spot !  Here,  then, 
reposes  what  is  left  of  the  dearest  that  Heaven  gave  me  ; 
among  the  dust  of  her  four  children  she  sleeps.  A  sacred 
horror  covered  the  place.  I  should  have  sunk  altogether  in 
my  sorrow,  had  it  not  been  for  my  two  daughters  that  were 
standing  on  the  outside  of  the  churchyard ;  I  saw  their  faces 
over  the  wall,  directed  to  me  with  anxious  fear.  This  called 
me  to  myself  ;  I  hastened  in  sadness  from  the  spot  where  I 
could  have  continued  forever  :  where  it  cheered  me  to  think 
that  one  day  I  should  rest'  by  her  side  ;  rest  from  all  the 
carking  care,  from  all  the  griefs  which  so  often  have  embittered 
to  me  the  enjoyment  of  life.  Alas  !  among  these  griefs  must 
I  reckon  even  lierlove,  the  strongest,  truest,  that  ever  inspired 
the  heart  of  woman,  which  made  me  the  happiest  of  mortals, 
and  yet  was  a  fountain  to  me  of  a  thousand  distresses,  inquie¬ 
tudes  and  cares.  To  entire  cheerfulness  perhaps  she  never 
attained  ;  but  for  what  unspeakable  sweetness,  for  what 
exalted  enrapturing  joys,  is  not  Love  indebted  to  Sorrow? 
Amidst  gnawing  anxieties,  with  the  torture  of  anguish  in  my 
heart,  I  have  been  made  even  by  the  love  which  caused  me 
this  anguish,  these  anxieties,  inexpressibly  happy !  When 
tears  flowed  over  our  cheeks,  did  not  a  nameless,  seldom-felt 
delight  stream  through  my  breast,  oppressed  equally  by  joy 
and  by  sorrow  ! 5 

But  Heyne  was  not  a  man  to  brood  over  past  griefs,  or 
linger  long  where  nothing  was  to  be  done  but  mourn.  In  a 
short  time,  according  to  a  good  old  plan  of  his,  having  reck¬ 
oned  up  his  grounds  of  sorrow,  he  fairly  wrote  down  on 
paper,  over  against  them,  his  ‘grounds  of  consolation  con¬ 
cluding  with  these  pious  words,  c  So  for  all  these  sorrows  too, 
c  these  trials,  do  I  thank  thee,  my  God !  And  now,  glorified 
‘  friend,  will  I  again  turn  me  with  undivided  heart  to  my 
e  duty  ;  thou  thyself  smilest  approval  on  me  !  ’  Nay,  it  was 
not  many  months  before  a  new  marriage  came  on  the  anvil ; 
in  which  matter,  truly,  Heyne  conducted  himself  with  the 
most  philosophic  indifference  ;  leaving  his  friends,  by  whom 
the,  project  had  been  started,  to  bring  it  to  what  issue  they 
pleased.  It  was  a  scheme  concerted  by  Zimmermann  (the 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


33 


author  of  Solitude ,  a  man  little  known  to  Heyne),  and  one 
Reich,  a  Leipsic  Bookseller,  who  had  met  at  the  Pyrmont 
Baths.  Brandes,  the  Hanoverian  Minister,  successor  of 
Miinchhausen  in  the  management  of  the  University  concerns, 
was  there  also  with  a  daughter ;  upon  her  the  projectors  cast 
their  eye.  Heyne,  being  consulted,  seems  to  have  comported 
himself  like  clay  in  the  bands  of  the  potter  ;  father  and  fair 
one,  in  like  manner,  were  of  a  compliant  humour,  and  thus 
was  the  business  achieved  ;  and  on  the  9th  of  April,  1777, 
Heyne  could  take  home  a  bride,  won  with  less  difficulty  than 
most  men  have  in  choosing  a  pair  of  boots.  Nevertheless, 
she  proved  an  excellent  wife  to  him  ;  kept  his  house  in  the 
cheerfullest  order ;  managed  her  step-children  and  her  own 
like  a  true  mother ;  and  loved,  and  faithfully  assisted  her  hus¬ 
band  in  whatever  he  undertook.  Considered  in  his  private 
relations,  such  a  man  might  well  reckon  himself  fortunate-. 

In  addition  to  Heyne’s  claims  as  a  scholar  and  teacher 
Heeren  would  have  us  regard  him  as  an  unusually  expert 
man  of  business  and  negotiator  ;  for  which  line  of  life  he  him¬ 
self  seems,  indeed,  to  have  thought  that  his  talent  was  more 
peculiarly  fitted.  In  proof  of  this,  we  have  long  details  of  his 
procedure  in  managing  the  Library,  the  Royal  Society,  the 
University  generally,  and  his  incessant  and  often  rather  com¬ 
plex  correspondence  with  Miinchhausen,  Brandes,  or  other 
ministers  who  presided  over  this  department.  Without  de¬ 
tracting  from  Heyne’s  skill  in  such  matters,  what  struck  us 
more  in  this  narrative  of  Heeren’s  was  the  singular  contrast 
which  the  ‘  Georgia  Augusta,’  in  its  interior  arrangement,  as 
well  as  its  external  relations  to  the  Government,  exhibits  with 
our  own  Universities.  The  prime  minister  of  the  country 
writes  thrice  weekly  to  the  director  of  an  institution  for 
learning!  He  oversees  all  ;  knows  the  character,  not  only  of 
every  professor,  but  of  every  pupil  that  gives  any  promise. 
He  is  continually  purchasing  books,  drawings,  models  ;  treat¬ 
ing  for  this  or  the  other  help  or  advantage  to  the  establish¬ 
ment.  He  has  his  eye  over  all  Germany  ;  and  nowhere  does 
a  man  of  any  decided  talent  show  himself,  but  he  strains 
every  nerve  to  acquire  him.  And  seldom  even  can  he  sue- 


34 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE. 


ceed  ;  for  the  Hanoverian  assiduity  seems  nothing  singular  ; 
every  state  in  Germany  has  its  minister  for  education,  as  well 
as  Hanover.  They  correspond,  they  inquire,  they  negotiate  ; 
everywhere  there  seems  a  canvassing,  less  for  places,  than  for 
the  best  men  to  fill  them.  Heyne  himself  has  his  Seminarium, 
a  private  class  of  the  nine  most  distinguished  students  in  the 
University  ;  these  he  trains  with  all  diligence,  and  is  in  due 
time  most  probably  enabled,  by  his  connexions,  to  place  in 
stations  fit  for  them.  A  hundred  and  thirty-five  professors 
are  said  to  have  been  sent  from  this  Seminarium  during  his 
presidency.  These  things  we  state  without  commentary  :  we 
believe  that  the  experience  of  all  English  and  Scotch  and 
Irish  University-men  will,  of  itself,  furnish  one.  The  state 
of  education  in  Germany,  and  the  structure  of  the  establish¬ 
ments  for  conducting  it,  seems  to  us  one  of  the  most  promis¬ 
ing  inquiries  that  could  at  this  moment  be  entered  on. 

But  to  return  to  Heyne.  We  have  said,  that  in  his  private 
circumstances  he  might  reckon  himself  fortunate.  His  pub¬ 
lic  relations,  on  a  more  splendid  scale,  continued,  to  the  last, 
to  be  of  the  same  happy  sort.  By  degrees,  he  had  risen  to  be, 
both  in  name  and  office,  the  chief  man  of  his  establishment ; 
his  character  stood  high  with  the  learned  of  all  countries ;  and 
the  best  fruit  of  external  reputation,  increased  respect  in  his 
own  circle,  was  not  denied  to  him.  The  burghei’3  of  Gottingen, 
so  fond  of  their  University,  could  not  but  be  proud  of  Heyne  ; 
nay,  as  the  time  passed  on,  they  found  themselves  laid  under 
more  than  one  specific  obligation  to  him.  He  remodelled  and 
reanimated  their  Gymnasium  (Town-School),  as  he  had  before 
done  that  of  Ilfeld  ;  and  what  was  still  more  important,  in  the 
rude  times  of  the  French  War,  by  his  skilful  application,  he 
succeeded  in  procuring  from  Napoleon,  not  only  a  protection 
for  the  University,  but  immunity  from  hostile  invasion  for  the 
whole  district  it  stands  hi.  Nay,  so  happily  were  matters  man¬ 
aged,  or  so  happily  did  they  turn  o'f  their  own  accord,  that 
Gottingen  rather  gamed  than  suffered  by  the  War  :  under 
Jerome  of  Westphalia,  not  only  were  all  benefices  punctually 
paid,  but  improvements  even  were  effected  ;  among  other 
things,  a  new  and  very  handsome  extension,  which  had  long 


THE  'LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


35 


been  desired,  was  built  for  the  Library,  at  the  charge  of  Gov¬ 
ernment.  To  all  these  claims  for  public  regard,  add  Heyne’s 
now  venerable  age,  and  we  can  fancy  how,  among  his  towns¬ 
men  and  fellow-collegians,  he  must  have  been  cherished,  nay 
almost  worshipped.  Already  had  the  magistracy,  by  a  special 
act,  freed  him  from  all  public  assessments  ;  but,  in  1809, 
on  his  eightieth  birthday,  came  a  still  more  emphatic  testi¬ 
mony  ;  for  Ritter  Franz,  and  all  the  public  Boards,  and  the 
Faculties  in  corpore,  came  to  him  in  procession  with  good 
wishes  ;  and  students  reverenced  him  ;  and  young  ladies  sent 
him  garlands,  stitched  together  by  their  own  fair  fingers  ;  in 
short,  Gottingen  was  a  place  of  jubilee  ;  and  good  old  Heyne, 
who  nowise  affected,  yet  could  not  dislike  these  things,  was 
among  the  happiest  of  men. 

In  another  respect  we  must  also  reckon  him  fortunate  :  that 
he  lived  till  he  had  completed  all  his  undertakings  ;  and  then 
departed  peacefully,  and  without  sickness,  from  which,  indeed, 
his  whole  life  had  been  remarkably  free.  Three  months  be¬ 
fore  his  death,  in  April,  1812,  he  saw  the  last  Volume  of  his 
Works  in  print  ;  and  rejoiced,  it  is  said,  with  an  affecting 
thankfulness,  that  so  much  had  been  granted  him.  Length 
of  life  was  not  now  to  be  hoped  for  ;  neither  did  Heyne  look 
forward  to  the  end  with  apprehension.  His  little  German 
verses,  and  Latin  translations,  composed  in  sleepless  nights, 
at  this  extreme  period,  are,  to  us,  by  far  the  most  touching 
part  of  his  poetry  ;  so  melancholy  is  the  spirit  of  them,  yet  so 
mild  ;  solemn,  not  without  a  shade  of  sadness,  yet  full  of  pious 
resignation.  At  length  came  the  end  ;  soft  and  gentle  as  his 
mother  could  have  wished  it  for  him.  The  11th  of  July  was 
a  public  day  in  the  Royal  Society  ;  Heyne  did  his  part  in  it ; 
spoke  at  large,  and  with  even  more  clearness  and  vivacity  than 
usual. 

‘Next  day,’  says  Heeren,  ‘was  Sunday  :  I  saw  him  in  the 
evening  for  the  last  time.  He  was  resting  in  his  chair,  ex¬ 
hausted  by  the  fatigue  of  yesterday.  On  Monday  morning, 
he  once  more  entered  his  class-room,  and  held  his  Seminarium. 
In  the  afternoon  he  prepared  his  letters,  domestic  as  well  as 
foreign ;  among  the  latter,  one  on  business  ;  sealed  them  all 


36 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


but  one,  written  in  Latin,  to  Professor  Thorlacius  in  Copen¬ 
hagen,  which  I  found  open,  but  finished,  on  his  desk.  At  sup¬ 
per  (none  but  his  elder  daughter  wTas  with  him)  he  talked 
cheerfully ;  and,  at  his  usual  time,  retired  to  rest.  In  the 
night,  the  servant  girl,  that  slept  under  his  apartment,  heard 
him  walking  up  and  down  ;  a  common  practice  with  him  when 
he  could  not  sleep.  However,  he  had  again  gone  to  bed.  Soon 
after  five,  he  arose,  as  usual ;  he  joked  with  the  girl  when  she 
asked  him  how  he  had  been  overnight.  She  left  him  to  make 
ready  his  coffee,  as  was  her  wont ;  and,  returning  with  it  in  a 
short  quarter  of  an  hour,  she  found  him  sunk  down  before  his 
washing-stand,  close  by  his  work  table.  His  hands  were  wet ; 
at  the  moment  when  he  had  been  washing  them,  had  death 
taken  him  into  his  arms.  One  breath  more,  and  he  ceased  to 
live  :  when  the  hastening  doctor  opened  a  vein,  no  blood 
would  flow.’ 


Heyne  was  interred  with  all  public  solemnities :  and,  in 
epicedial  language,  it  may  be  said,  without  much  exaggera¬ 
tion,  that  his  country  mourned  for  him.  At  Chemnitz,  his 
birthplace,  there  assembled,  under  constituted  authority,  a 
grand  meeting  of  the  magnates,  to  celebrate  his  memory  ; 
the  old  school-album,  in  which  the  little  ragged  boy  had  in¬ 
scribed  his  name,  was  produced  ;  grandiloquent  speeches  were 
delivered  ;  and  4  in  the  afternoon,  many  hundreds  went  to  see 
the  poor  cottage  ’  where  his  father  had  weaved,  and  he  starved 
and  learned.  How  generous  ! 

To  estimate  Heyne’s  intellectual  character,  to  fix  accu¬ 
rately  his  rank  and  merits  as  a  critic  and  philologer,  we  can¬ 
not  but  consider  as  beyond  our  province,  and  at  any  rate 
superfluous  here.  By  the  general  consent  of  the  learned  in 
all  countries,  he  seems  to  be  acknowledged  as  the  first  among 
recent  scholars  ;  his  immense  reading,  his  lynx-eyed  skill  in 
exposition  and  emendation  are  no  longer  anywhere  contro¬ 
verted  ;  among  ourselves  his  taste  in  these  matters  has  been 
praised  by  Gibbon,  and  by  Parr  pronounced  to  be  ‘  exquisite.’ 
In  his  own  country,  Heyne  is  even  regarded  as  the  founder  of 
a  new  epoch  in  classical  study  ;  as  the  first  who  with  any  de¬ 
cisiveness  attempted  to  translate  fairly  beyond  the  letter  of 
the  classics  ;  to  read  in  the  writings  of  the  Ancients,  not  their 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


37 


language  alone,  or  even  their  detached  opinions  and  records, 
but  their  spirit  and  character,  their  way  of  life  and  thought  ; 
how  the  World  and  Nature  painted  themselves  to  the  mind 
in  those  old  ages ;  how,  in  one  word,  the  Greeks  and  the 
Romans  were  men,  even  as  we  are.  Such  of  our  readers  as 
have  studied  any  one  of  Heyne’s  works,  or  even  looked  care¬ 
fully  into  the  Lectures  of  the  Sclilegels,  the  most  ingenious 
and  popular  commentators  of  that  school,  will  be  at  no  loss  to 
understand  what  we  mean. 

By  his  inquiries  into  antiquity,  especially  by  his  laboured 
investigation  of  its  politics  and  its  mythology,  Heyneis  believed 
to  have  carried  the  torch  of  philosophy  towards,  if  not  into, 
the  mysteries  of  old  time.  What  Winkelmann,  his  great  con¬ 
temporary,  did,  or  began  to  do,  for  ancient  Plastic  Art,  the 
other,  with  equal  success,  began  for  ancient  Literature.1  A 
high  praise,  surely  ;  yet,  as  we  must  think,  one  not  unfounded, 
and  which,  indeed,  in  all  parts  of  Europe,  is  becoming  more 
and  more  confirmed. 

So  much,  in  the  province  to  which  he  devoted  his  activity, 
is  Heyne  allowed  to  have  accomplished.  Nevertheless,  we 
must  not  a'ssert  that,  in  point  of  understanding  and  spiritual 
endowment,  he  can  be  called  a  great,  or  even,  in  strict  speech, 
a  complete  man.  Wonderful  perspicuity,  unwearied  diligencej 
are  not  denied  him  ;  but  to  philosophic  order,  to  classical  ad- 

1  It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  these  two  men,  so  singularly  correspondent 
in  their  early  sufferings,  subsequent  distinction,  line  of  study,  and 
rugged  enthusiasm  of  character,  were  at  one  time,  while  both  as  yet 
were  under  the  horizon,  brought  into  partial  contact.  ‘  An  acquaintance 
‘of  another  sort,’  says  Heeren,  ‘the  young  Heyne  was  to  make  in  the 
‘  Briilil  Library  ;  with  a  person  whose  importance  he  could  not  then  an- 
‘  ticipate.  One  frequent  visitor  of  this  establishment  was  a  certain  al- 
‘  most  wholly  unknown  man,  whose  visits  could  not  be  specially  desir- 
‘  able  for  the  librarians,  such  endless  labour  did  he  cost  them.  He 
‘seemed insatiable  in  reading  ;  and  called  for  so  many  books  that  his  re- 
‘  ception  there  grew  rather  of  the  coolest.  It  was  Johann  Winkelmann . 
‘  Meditating  his  journey  for  Italy,  he  was  then  laying-in  preparation  for 
‘  it.  Thus  did  these  two  men  become,  if  not  confidential,  yet  acquainted  ; 
‘  who  at  that  time,  both  still  in  darkness  and  poverty,  could  little  sup. 
‘  pose,  that  in  a  few  years  they  were  to  be  the  teachers  of  cultivated  Eu¬ 
rope  and  the  ornaments  of  their  nation.’ 


38. 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEYNE. 


justment,  clearness,  polish,  whether  in  word  or  thought,  he 
seldom  attains  ;  nay  many  times,  it  must  be  avowed,  he  in¬ 
volves  himself  in  tortuous  longwinded  verbosities,  and  stands 
before  us  little  better  than  one  of  that  old  school  which 
his  admirers  boast  that  he  displaced.  He  appears,  we  might 
also  say,  as  if  he  had  wings  but  could  not  well  use  them. 
Or,  indeed,  it  might  be  that,  writing  constantly  in  a  dead 
language,  he  came  to  write  heavily ;  working  forever  on 
subjects  where  learned  armour-at-all-points  cannot  be  dis¬ 
pensed  with,  he  at  last  grew  so  habituated  to  his  harness  that 
he  would  not  walk  abroad  without  it ;  nay  perhaps  it  had 
rusted  together,  and  could  not  be  unclasped  !  A  sad  fate  for 
a  thinker  !  Yet  one  which  threatens  many  commentators,  and 
overtakes  many. 

As  a  man  encrusted  and  encased,  he  exhibits  himself,  more¬ 
over,  to  a  certain  degree,  in  his  moral  character.  Here  too, 
as  in  his  intellect,  there  is  an  awkwardness,  a  cumbrous  inert¬ 
ness  ;  nay,  there  is  a  show  of  dulness,  of  hardness,  which  no¬ 
wise  intrinsically  belongs  to  him.  Pie  passed,  we  are  told, 
for  less  religious,  less  affectionate,  less  enthusiastic  than  he 
was.  Plis  heart,  one  would  think,  had  no  free  course,  or  had 
found  itself  a  secret  one  ;  outwardly  he  stands  before  us  cold 
and  still,  a  very  wall  of  rock  ;  yet  within  lay  a  well,  from 
which,  as  we  have  witnessed,  the  stroke  of  some  Moses’-wand 
(the  death  of  a  Theresa)  could  draw  streams  of  pure  feeling. 
Callous  as  the  man  seems  to  us,  he  has  a  sense  for  all  natural 
beauty  ;  a  merciful  sympathy  for  his  fellow-men  :  his  own 
early  distresses  never  left  his  memory  ;  for  similar  distresses 
his  pity  and  help  were,  at  all  times,  in  store.  This  form  of 
character  may  also  be  the  fruit  partly  of  his  employments, 
partly  of  his  sufferings,  and  perhaps  is  not  very  singular 
among  commentators. 

For  the  rest,  Heeren  assures  us,  that  in  practice  Heyne  was 
truly  a  good  man  ;  altogether  just ;  diligent  in  his  own  hon¬ 
est  business,  and  ever  ready  to  forward  that  of  others  ;  com¬ 
passionate  ;  though  quick-tempered,  placable  ;  friendly,  and 
satisfied  with  simple  pleasures.  He  delighted  in  roses,  and 
always  kept  a  bouquet  of  them  in  water  on  his  desk.  His 


THE  LIFE  OF  HE  THE. 


39 


house  was  embowered  among  roses  ;  and  in  his  old  days  he 
used  to  wander  through  the  bushes  with  a  pair  of  scissors. 
‘Farther,’  says  Heeren,  ‘in  spite  of  his  short  sight,  he  was 
fond  of  the  fields  and  skies,  and  could  lie  for  hours  reading 
on  the  grass.’  A  kindly  old  man !  With  strangers,  hundreds 
of  whom  visited  him,  he  was  uniformly  courteous  ;  though 
latterly,  being  a  little  hard  of  hearing,  less  fit  to  converse. 
In  society  he  strove  much  to  be  polite  ;  but  had  a  habit 
(which  ought  to  be  general)  of  yawning,  when  people  spoke 
to  him  and  said  nothing. 

On  the  whole,  the  Germans  have  some  reason  to  be  proud 
of  Heyne  :  who  shall  deny  that  they  have  here  once  more  pro¬ 
duced  a  scholar  of  the  right  old  stock  ;  a  man  to  be  ranked, 
for  honesty  of  study  and  of  life,  with  the  Sealigers,  the  Bent¬ 
leys,  and  old  illustrious  men,  who,  though  covered  with  aca¬ 
demic  dust  and  harsh  with  polyglot  vocables,  were  true  men 
of  endeavour,  and  fought  like  giants,  with  such  weapons  as 
they  had,  for  the  good  cause  ?  To  ourselves,  we  confess, 
Heyne,  highly  interesting  for  what  he  did,  is  not  less  but 
more  so  for  what  he  was.  This  is  another  of  the  proofs, 
which  minds  like  his  are  from  time  to  time  sent  hither  to 
give,  that  the  man  is  not  the  product  of  his  circumstances, 
but  that,  in  a  far  higher  degree;  the  circumstances  are  the 
product  of  the  man.  While  beneficed  clerks  and  other  sleek 
philosophers,  reclining  on  their  cushions  of  velvet,  are  dem¬ 
onstrating  that  to  make  a  scholar  and  man  of  taste,  there 
must  be  cooperation  of  the  upper  classes,  society  of  gent-le- 
men-commoners,  and  an  income  of  four  hundred  a-year  ;  — ■ 
arises  the  son  of  a  Chemnitz  weaver,  and  with  the  very  wind 
of  his  stroke  sweeps  them  from  the  scene.  Let  no  man 
doubt  the  omnipotence  of  Nature,  doubt  the  majesty  of  man’s 
soul ;  let  no  lonely  unfriended  son  of  genius  despair  !  Let 
him  not  despair  ;  if  he  have  the  will,  the  right  will,  then  the 
power  also  has  not  been  denied  him.  It  is  but  the  artichoke 
that  will  not  grow  except  in  garden's.  The  acorn  is  cast  care¬ 
lessly  abroad  into  the  wilderness,  yet  it  rises  to  be  an  oak  ; 
on  the  wild  soil  it  nourishes  itself,  it  defies  the  tempest,  and 
lives  for  a  thousand  years. 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


/ 

«s 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


Comparative  estimation  of  tlie  playwright,  millwright  and  cartwright. 
England  not  so  successful  in  the  first  species  of  carpentry  as  in  the  other 
two  The  Playwrights  of  Germany  a  strong  triumphant  body  :  Interest 
in  the  Drama  taking  the  place  of  interest  in  Politics.  The  world  of 
pasteboard,  and  the  world  of  fact  The  study  of  German  literature,  like 
all  other  earthly  undertakings,  has  its  negative  as  well  as  its  positive 
side.  The  German  Parnassus.  Ill-fated  Kotzebue,  lifted  up  by  the  hol¬ 
low  balloon  of  popular  applause.  Melancholy  end  of  all  windbags,  (p. 
43). — Grillparzer,  Klingemann  and  Milliner,  may  stand  as  representa¬ 
tives  of  the  Playwrights  of  Germany.  Grillparzer,  not  without  reluctance, 
named  under  the  head  of  Playwrights :  Might  have  done  good  service  in 
some  prose  or  small-poem  department.  Tricks  of  the  trade  :  The  public 
a  dim-eyed  animal,  gullible  to  almost  all  lengths.  Of  Grillparzer’s  pe¬ 
culiar  knacks,  not  very  much  to  be  said:  His  worst  Play,  theAJmfrau; 
a  deep  tragedy  of  the  Castle-Spectre  sort.  Konig  Ottokars  Gluck  und 
Elide ,  a  much  more  innocent  piece,  full  of  action,  though  without  any 
discernible  coherence.  Agglomeration  is  not  creation,  and  avails  little 
in  Literature.  King  Ottokar’s  soliloquy  in  the  last  of  his  fields.  A 
charitable  hope  for  better  things.  (48). — Dr.  Klingemann  one  of  the 
most  indisputable  Playwrights  now  extant.  His  materials  chiefly  rosin, 
oil-paper,  vizards,  scarlet  drapery  and  gunpowder.  The  compound 
nowise  unpleasant  :  If  any  man  wish  to  amuse  himself  rationally,  here 
is  ware  for  his  money.  Aliasaer ,  the  Wandering  Jew.  Faust ,  and  his 
melodramatic  contract  with  the  Devil :  A  few  scenes,  showing  how  Faust 
was  carried  off  in  thunder,  lightning  and  blue  fire.  Dr.  Klingemann,  a 
bold  perpendicular  Playwright,  entirely  contented  with  himself  and  his 
handicraft.  (58). — Dr.  Milliner  supreme  overall  Playwrights:  Might 
have  made  a  very  pretty  Lawyer,  but  to  set  up  for  a  Poet  a  different 
enterprise.  Ever  tempting  us  with  some  hope  that  here  is  a  touch  of 
Poetry  ;  and  ever  disappointing  us  with  an  expanse  of  pure  Prose.  (67). 
Mullner’s  one  recipe  for  play-making  borrowed  from  Zacharias  Werner: 
A  pettifogging  sheriff’s-olficer  principle  of  Fate,  the  raw  material  of 
his  whole  tragedy-goods.  The  Greek  idea  of  Fate,  a  lofty  and  consistent 
hypothesis.  Dr.  Milliner’s  Fate-tenet  totally  incredible  even  to  him¬ 
self  :  a  mere  craftsman's  trick.  His  abilities  and  performances  as  a 
journalist:  German  .editorial  squabbles.  The  duty  of  Foreign  Review¬ 
ers  twofold  :  What  to  be  welcomed  ;  and  what  to  be  rejected.  Let  every 
one  be  active  for  himself.  (72). 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS.1 


[1829.] 

In  this  stage  of  society  the  playwright  is  as  essential  and 
acknowledged  a  character  as  the  millwright,  or  cartwright,  or 
any  other  wright  whatever  ;  neither  can  we  see  wTliy,  in  gen¬ 
eral  estimation,  he  should  rank  lower  than  these  his  brother 
artisans,  except  perhaps  for  this  one  reason  :  that  the  former 
working  in  timber  and  iron,  for  the  wants  of  the  body;  pro¬ 
duce  a  completely  suitable  machine  ;  while  the  latter,  work¬ 
ing  in  thought  and  feeling,  for  the  wants  of  the  soul,  pro¬ 
duces  a  machine  which  is  incompletely  suitable.  In  other 
respects,  we  confess  we  cannot  perceive  that  the  balance  lies 
against  him  :  for  no  candid  man,  as  it  seems  to  us,  w7ill  doubt 
but  the.  talent  which  constructed  a  Virginias  or  a,  Bertram, 
might  have  sufficed,  had  it  been  properly  directed,  to  make 
not  only  wheelbarrows  and  waggons,  but  even  mills  of  con- 

1  Foreign  Review,  No.  6. — 1.  Die  Ahnfrau  (The  Ancestress).  A 
Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  F.  Grillparzer.  Fourth  Edition.  Vienna, 
1823. 

Kdnig  Ottokars  Gluck  und  Ends  (King  Ottocar’s  Fortune  and  End). 
A.  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  F.  Grillparzer.  Vienna,  1825. 

Sappho.  A  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  F.  Grillparzer.  Third  Edi¬ 
tion.  Vienna,  1822. 

2.  Faust.  A  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  August  Klingemann.  Leip- 
sig  and  Altenburg,  1815. 

Ahasuer.  A  Tragedy,  in  five  Acts.  By  August  Klingemann.  Bruns¬ 
wick,  1827. 

3.  Mulners  Dramatische  WerTce.  Erste  rechtmassige ,  vollstandige  und 
'corn  Verfasser  verbesserte  Gesammt-Ausgdbe.  (Milliner’s  Dramatic 
Works.  First  legal  collective  Edition,  complete  and  revised  by  the  Au¬ 
thor).  7  vols.  Brunswick,  1828. 


44 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


siderable  complicacy.  However,  if  the  public  is  niggardly  to 
the  playwright  in  one  point,  it  must  be  proportionably  liberal 
in  another  ;  according  to  Adam  Smith's  observation,  that 
trades  which  are  reckoned  less  reputable  have  higher  money 
wages.  Thus,  one  thing  compensating  the  other,  the  play¬ 
wright  may  still  realise  an  existence  ;  as,  in  fact,  we  find  that 
he  does :  for  playwrights  were,  are  and  probably  will  always 
be  ;  unless,  indeed,  in  process  of  years,  the  whole  dramatic 
concern  be  finally  abandoned  by  mankind  ;  or,  as  in  the  case 
of  our  Punch  and  Mathews,  every  player  becoming  his  own 
playwright,  this  trade  may  merge  in  the  other  and  older 
one. 

The  British  nation  has  its  own  playwrights,  several  of  them 
cunning  men  in  their  craft :  yet  here,  it  would  seem,  this  sort 
of  carpentry  does  not  flourish ;  at  least,  not  with  that  pre¬ 
eminent  vigour  which  distinguishes  most  other  branches  of 
our  national  industry.  In  hardware  and  cotton  goods,  in  all 
sorts  of  chemical,  mechanical,  or  other  material  processes, 
England  outstrips  the  world  ;  nay,  in  many  departments  of 
literary  manufacture  also,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  fabrication 
of  Novels,  she  may  safely  boast  herself  peerless  :  but  in  the 
matter  of  the  Drama,  to  whatever  cause  it  be  owing,  she  can 
claim  no  such  superiority.  In  theatrical  produce  she  yields 
considerably  to  France  ;  and  is,  out  of  sight,  inferior  to  Ger¬ 
many.  Nay,  do  not  we  English  hear  daily,  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  that  the  Drama  is  dead,  or  in  a  state  of  sus¬ 
pended  animation  ;  and  are  not  medical  men  sitting  on  the 
case,  and  propounding  their  remedial  appliances,  weekly, 
monthly,  quarterly,  to  no  manner  of  purpose  ?  Whilst  in 
Germany  the  Drama  is  not  only,  to  all  appearance,  alive,  but 
in  the  very  flush  and  heyday  of  superabundant  strength  ;  in¬ 
deed,  as  it  wrere,  still  only  sowing  its  first  wild  oats  !  For 
if  the  British  Playwrights  seem  verging  to  ruin,  and  our 
Knowleses,  Maturins,  Shiels  and  Shees  stand  few  and  com¬ 
paratively  forlorn,  like  firs  on  an  Irish  bog,  the  Playwrights  of 
Germany  are  a  strong,  triumphant  body  ;  so  numerous  that 
it  has  been  calculated,  in  case  of  war,  a  regiment  of  foot 
might  be  raised,  in  which,  from  the  colonel  down  to  the 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


45 


drummer,  every  officer  and  private  sentinel  might  show  his 
drama  or  dramas. 

To  investigate  the  origin  of  so  marked  a  superiority  would 
lead  us  beyond  our  purpose.  Doubtless  the  proximate  cause 
must  lie  in  a  superior  demand  for  the  article  of  dramas.; 
which  superior  demand  again  may  arise  either  from  the  cli¬ 
mate  of  Germany,  as  Montesquieu  might  believe  ;  or  perhaps 
more  naturally  and  immediately  from  the  political  condition 
of  that  country  ;  for  man  is  not  only  a  working  but  a  talking 
animal,  and  where  no  Catholic  Questions,  and  Parliamentary 
Reforms,  and  Select  Vestries  are  given  him  to  discuss  in  his 
leisure  hours,  he  is  glad  to  fall  upon  plays  or  players,  or  what¬ 
ever  comes  to  hand,  whereby  to  fence  himself  a  little  against 
the  inroads  of  Ennui.  Of  the  fact,  at  least,  that  such  a  su¬ 
perior  demand  for  dramas  exists  in  Germany,  we  have  only 
to  open  a  newspaper  to  find  proof.  Is  not  every  Litteratur- 
blatt  and  Kunstblatt  stuffed  to  bursting  with  theatricals  ?  Nay, 
has  not  the  ‘  able  Editor  ’  established  correspondents  in  every 
capital  city  of  the  civilised  world,  who  report  to  him  on  this 
one  matter  and  on  no  other  ?  For,  be  our  curiosity  what  it  may, 
let  us  have  profession  of  ‘  intelligence  from  Munich,’  c  intel¬ 
ligence  from  Vienna,’  ‘intelligence  from  Berlin,’  is  it  intelli¬ 
gence  of  anything  but  of  greenroom  controversies  and  nego¬ 
tiations,  of  tragedies  and  operas  and  farces  acted  and  to  be 
acted  ?  Not  of  men,  and  their  doings,  by  hearth  and  hall,  in 
the  firm  earth  ;  but  of  mere  effigies  and  shells  of  men,  and 
their  doings  in  the  world  of  pasteboard,  do  these  unhappy 
correspondents  write.  Unhappy  we  call  them  ;  for,  with  all 
our  tolerance  of  playwrights,  we  cannot  but  think  that  there 
are  limits,  and  very  strait  ones,  within  which  their  activity 
should  be  restricted.  Here  in  England,  our  ‘  theatrical  re¬ 
ports  ’  are  nuisance  enough  ;  and  many  persons  who  love  their 
life,  and  therefore  ‘  take  care  of  their  time,  which  is  the  stuff 
life  is  made  of,’  regularly  lose  several  columns  of  their  weekly 
newspaper  in  that  way  :  but  our  case  is  pure  luxury,  compared 
with  that  of  the  Germans,  who  instead  of  a  measurable  and 
sufferable  spicing  of  theatric  matter,  are  obliged,  metaphori¬ 
cally  speaking,  to  breakfast  and  dine  on  it ;  have  in  fact  noth- 


46 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


mg  else  to  lire  on  but  that  highly  unnutritive  victual.  We 
ourselves  are  occasional  readers  of  German  newspapers  ;  and 
have  often,  in  the  spirit  of  Ciiristian  humanity,  meditated 
presenting  to  the  whole  body  of  German  editors  a  project, — 
which,  however,  must  certainly  have  ere  now  occurred  to 
themselves,  and  for  some  reason  been  found  inapplicable  :  it 
was,  to  address  these  correspondents  of  theirs,  all  and  sundry, 
in  plain  language,  and  put  the  question,  Whether,  on  studi¬ 
ously  surveying  the  Universe  from  their  several  stations,  there 
was  nothing  in  the  heavens  above,  or  the  earth  beneath,  or 
the  wraters  under  the  earth,  nothing  visible  but  this  one  busi¬ 
ness,  or  rather  shadow  of  business,  that  had  an  interest  for 
the  minds  of  men  ?  If  the  correspondents  still  answered  that 
nothing  vTas  visible,  then  of  course  they  must  be  left  to  con¬ 
tinue  in  this  strange  state  ;  prayers,  at  the  same  time,  being 
put  up  for  them  in  all  churches. 

However,  leaving  every  able  Editor  to  fight  his  own  battle, 
we  address  ourselves  to  the  task  in  hand  :  meaning  here  to 
inquire  a  very  little  into  the  actual  state  of  the  dramatic  trade 
in  Germany,  and  exhibit  some  detached  features  of  it  to  the 
consideration  of  our  readers.  For,  seriously  speaking,  low  as 
the  pro vince  may  be,  it  is  a  real,  active  and  ever-enduring 
province  of  the  literary  republic  ;  nor  can  the  pursuit  of  many 
men,  even  though  it  be  a  profitless  and  foolish  pursuit,  ever 
be  without  claim  to  some  attention  from  us,  either  in  the  way 
of  furtherance  or  of  censure  and  correction.  Our  avowed  ob¬ 
ject  is  to  promote  the  sound  study  of  Foreign  Literature  ; 
which  study,  like  all  other  earthly  undertakings,  has  its  nega¬ 
tive  as  well  as  its  positive  side.  We  have  already,  as  occasion 
served,  borne  testimony  to  the  merits  of  various  German 
poets  ;  and  must  now  say  a  word  on  certain  German  poet¬ 
asters  ;  hoping  that  it  may  be  chiefly  a  regard  to  the  for¬ 
mer  which  has  made  us  take  even  this  slight  notice  of  the 
latter :  for  the  bad  is  in  itself  of  no  value,  and  only  worth  de¬ 
scribing  lest  it  be  mistaken  for  the  good.  At  the  same  time, 
let  no  reader  tremble,  as  if  we  meant  to  overwhelm  him,  on 
this  occasion,  with  a  whole  mountain  of  dramatic  lumber, 
poured  forth  in  torrents,  like  shot  rubbish,  from  the  play- 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


47 


house  garrets,  where  it  is  mouldering  and  evaporating  into- 
nothing,  silently  and  without  harm  to  any  one.  Far  be  this 
from  us  !  Nay,  our  own  knowledge  of  this  subject  is  in  the 
highest  degree  limited  ;  and,  indeed,  to  exhaust  it,  or  attempt 
discussing  it  with  scientific  precision,  would  be  an  impossible 
enterprise.  What  man  is  there  that  could  assort  the  whole 
furniture  of  Milton’s  Limbo  of  Vanity  /  or  where  is  the  Hallam 
that  would  undertake  to  write  us  the  Constitutional  History  of 
a  Rookery  ?  Let  the  courteous  reader  take  heart,  then  ;  for 
he  is  in  hands  that  will  not,  nay  what  is  more,  that  cannot,  do 
him  much  harm.  One  brief  shy  glance  into  this  huge  bivouac 
of  Playwrights,  all  sawing  and  planing  with  such  tumult ;  and 
we  leave  it,  probably  for  many  years. 

The  German  Parnassus,  as  one  of  its  own  denizens  remarks, 
has  a  rather  broad  summit ;  yet  only  two  Dramatists  are 
reckoned,  within  the  last  century,  to  have  mounted  thither : 
Schiller  and  Goethe  ;  if  we  are  not,  on  the  strength  of  his  Minna 
von  Barnhelm  and  Emilie  Galotti,  to  account  Lessing  also  of 
the  number.  On  the  slope  of  the  Mountain  may  be  found  a 
few  stragglers  of  the  same  brotherhood  ;  among  these,  Tieck 
and  Maler  Muller,  firmly  enough  stationed  at  considerable 
elevations ;  while  far  below  appear  various  honest  persons 
climbing  vehemently,  but  against  precipices  of  loose  sand,  to 
whom  we  wish  all  speed.  But  the  reader  will  understand 
that  the  bivouac  we  speak  of,  and  are  about  to  enter,  lies  not 
on  the  declivity  of  the  Hill  at  all  ;  but  on  the  level  ground 
close  to  the  foot  of  it  ;  the  essence  of  a  Playwright  being  that 
he  works  not  in  Poetry,  but  in  Prose  which  more  or  less 
cunningly  resembles  it.  And  here,  pausing  for  a  moment, 
the  reader  observes  that  he  is  in  a  civilised  country  ;  for  see, 
on  the  very  boundary-line  of  Parnassus,  rises  a  gallows  with 
the  figure  of  a  man  hung  in  chains !  It  is  the  figure  of 
August  von  Kotzebue  ;  and  has  swung  there  for  many  years, 
as  a  warning  to  all  too-audacious  Playwrights  ;  who  neverthe¬ 
less,  as  v/e  see,  pay  little  heed  to  it.  Ill-fated  Kotzebue,  once 
the  darling  of  theatrical  Europe  !  This  was  the  prince  of  all 
Playwrights,  and  could  manufacture  Plays  with  a  speed  and 
felicity  surpassing  even  Edinburgh  Novels.  For  his  muse, 


48 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


like  other  doves,  hatched  twins  in  the  month  ;  and  the  world 
gazed  on  them  with  an  admiration  too  deep  for  mere  words. 
What  is  all  past  or  present  popularity  to  this  ?  Were  not 
these  Plays  translated  into  almost  every  language  of  articulate¬ 
speaking  men  ;  acted,  at  least,  we  may  literally  say,  in  every 
theatre  from  Kamtschatka  to  Cadiz  ?  Nay,  did  they  not  melt 
the  most  obdurate  hearts  in  all  countries ;  and,  like  the  music 
of  Orpheus,  draw  tears  down  iron  cheeks?  We  ourselves 
have  known  the  flintiest  men,  who  professed  to  have  wept 
over  them,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives.  So  was  it  twenty 
years  ago  ;  ho^w  stands  it  to-day  ?  Kotzebue,  lifted  up  on  the 
hollow  balloon  of  popular  applause,  thought  wings  had  been 
given  him  that  he  might  ascend  to  the  Immortals :  gay  he 
rose,  soaring,  sailing,  as  with  supreme  dominion  ;  but  in  the 
rarer  azure  deep,  his  windbag  burst  asunder,  or  the  arrows  of 
keen  archers  pierced  it ;  and  so  at  last  we  find  him  a  com¬ 
pound-pendulum,  vibrating  in  the  character  of  scarecrow,  to 
guard  from  forbidden  fruit !  O  ye  Playwrights,  and  literary 
quacks  of  every  feather,  weep  over  Kotzebue,  and  over  your¬ 
selves  !  Know  that  the  loudest  roar  of  the  million  is  not 
fame  ;  that  the  windbag,  are  ye  mad  enough  to  mount  it,  vnll 
burst,  or  be  shot  through  with  arrows,  and  your  bones  too 
shall  act  as  scarecrows. 

But,  quitting  this  idle  allegorical  vein,  let  us  at  length  pro¬ 
ceed  in  plain  English,  and  as  beseems  mere  prose  Reviewers 
to  the  work  laid  out  for  us.  Among  the  hundreds  of  Ger¬ 
man  Dramatists,  as  they  are  called,  three  individuals,  already 
known  to  some  British  readers,  and  prominent  from  all  the 
rest  in  Germany,  may  fitly  enough  stand  here  as  representa¬ 
tives  of  the  whole  Playwright  class  ;  whose  various  craft  and 
produce  the  procedure  of  these  three  may  in  some  small 
degree  serve  to  illustrate.  Of  Grillparzer,  therefore,  and 
Klingemann,  and  Milliner,  in  their  order. 

Franz  Grillparzer  seems  to  be  an  Austrian  ;  which  country 
is  reckoned  nowise  fertile  in  poets  ;  a  circumstance  that  may 
perhaps  have  contributed  a  little  to  his  own  rather  rapid  celeb¬ 
rity.  Our  more  special  acquaintance  with  Grillparzer  is  of 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


49 


very  recent  date  ;  though  his  name  and  samples  of  his  ware 
have  for  some  time  been  hung  out,  in  many  British  and 
foreign  Magazines,  often  with  testimonials  which  might  have 
beguiled  less  timeworn  customers.  Neither,  after  all,  have  we 
found  these  testimonials  falser  than  others  such  are,  but 
rather  not  so  false  ;  for,  indeed,  Grillparzer  is  a  most  inoffen¬ 
sive  man,  nay  positively  rather  meritorious  ;  nor  is  it  without 
reluctance  that  we  name  him  under  this  head  of  Playwrights, 
and  not  under  that  of  Dramatists,  which  he  aspires  to.  Had 
the  law  with  regard  to  mediocre  poets  relaxed  itself  since 
Horace’s  time,  all  had  been  well  with  Grillparzer  ;  for  un¬ 
doubtedly  there  is  a  small  vein  of  tenderness  and  grace  run¬ 
ning  through  him  ;  a  seeming  modesty  also,  and  real  love  of 
his  art,  which  gives  promise  of  better  things.  But  gods  and 
men  and  columns  are  still  equally  rigid  in  that  unhappy  par¬ 
ticular  of  mediocrity,  even  pleasing  mediocrity  ;  and  no  scene 
or  line  is  yet  known  to  us  of  Grillparzer’s  which  exhibits 
anything  more.  Non  concessere,  therefore,  is  his  sentence  for 
the  present  ;  and  the  louder  his  well-meaning  admirers  extol 
him,  the  more  emphatically  should  it  be  pronounced  and  re¬ 
peated.  Nevertheless  Grillparzer’s  claim  to  the  title  of  Play¬ 
wright  is  perhaps  more  his  misfortune  than  his  crime.  Hiv¬ 
ing  in  a  country  where  the  Drama  engrosses  so  much  atten¬ 
tion,  he  has  been  led  into  attempting  it,  without  any  decisive 
qualification  for  such  an  enterprise  ;  and  so  his  allotment  of 
talent,  which  might  have  done  good  service  in  some  prose  de¬ 
partment,  or  even  in  the  sonnet,  elegy,  song  or  other  outlying 
province  of  Poetry,  is  driven,  as  it  were,  in  spite  of  fate,  to 
write  Plays  ;  which,  though  regularly  divided  into  scenes  and 
separate  speeches,  are  essentially  monological ;  and  though 
swarming  with  characters,  too  often  express  only  one  charac¬ 
ter,  and  that  no  very  extraordinary  one, — the  character  of 
Franz  Grillparzer  himself.  What  is  an  increase  of  misfort¬ 
une  too,  he  has  met  with  applause  in  this  career ;  which 
therefore  he  is  likely  to  follow  farther  and  farther,  let  nature 
and  his  stars  say  to  it  what  they  will. 

The  characteristic  of  a  Playwright  is,  that  he  writes  in 
Prose  ;  which  Prose  he  palms,  probably  first  on  himself  and 
4 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


50 

then  on  the  simpler  part  of  the  public,  for  Poetry :  and  the 
manner  in  which  he  effects  this  legerdemain  constitutes  his 
specific  distinction,  fixes  the  species  to  which  he  belongs  in 
the  genus  Playwright.  But  it  is  a  universal  feature  of  him 
that  he  attempts,  by  prosaic,  and  as  it  were  mechanical  means 
to  accomplish  an  end  which,  except  by  poetical  genius,  is  ab¬ 
solutely  not  to  be  accomplished.  For  the  most  part,  he  has 
some  knack,  or  trick  of  the  trade,  which  by  close  inspection 
can  be  detected,  and  so  the  heart  of  his  mystery  be  seen  into. 
He  may  have  one  trick,  or  many  ;  and  the  more  cunningly  he 
can  disguise  these,  the  more  perfect  is  he  as  a  craftsman  ;  for 
were  the  public  once  to  penetrate  into  this  his  sleight-of-hand, 
it  were  all  over  with  him, — Othello’s  occupation  were  gone. 
No  conjurer,  when  we  once  understand  his  method  of  fire¬ 
eating,  can  any  longer  pass  for  a  true  thaumaturgist,  or  even 
entertain  us  in  his  proper  character  of  quack,  though  he 
should  eat  Mount  Vesuvius  itself.  But  happily  for  Play¬ 
wrights  and  others,  the  public  is  a  dim-eyed  animal ;  gullible 
to  almost  all  lengths, — nay,  which  often  seems  to  prefer  being 
gulled. 

Of  Grillparzer’s  peculiar  knack  and  recipe  for  play-making, 
there  iq  not  very  much  to  be  said.  He  seems  to  have  tried 
various  kinds  of  recipes,  in  his  time  ;  and,  to  his  credit  be  it 
spoken,  seems  little  contented  with  any  of  them.  By  much 
the  worst  play  of  his,  that  we  have  seen,  is  the  Ahnfrau  (An¬ 
cestress)  ;  a  deep  tragedy  of  the  Castle-Spectre  sort ;  the 
whole  mechanism  of  which  was  discernible  and  condemnable 
at  a  single  glance.  It  is  nothing  but  the  old  story  of  Fate  ; 
an  invisible  Nemesis  visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
children  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation  ;  a  method  almost 
as  common  and  sovereign  in  German  Art,  at  this  day,  as  the 
method  of  steam  is  in  British  mechanics  ;  and  of  which 
we  shall  anon  have  more  occasion  to  speak.  In  his  Preface, 
Grillparzer  endeavours  to  palliate  or  deny  the  fact  of  his  be¬ 
ing  a  Schicksal-Dichter  (Fate-Tragedian)  ;  but  to  no  purpose  ; 
for  it  is  a  fact  grounded  on  the  testimony  of  the  seven  senses  : 
however,  we  are  glad  to  observe  that,  with  this  one  trial,  he 
seems  to  have  abandoned  the  Fate-line,  and  taken  into  better, 


GERMAN  PL  A  Y  WRIGHTS.  5 1 

at  least  into  different  ones.  With  regard  to  the  Ahnfrau  it¬ 
self,  we  may  remark  that  few  things  struck  us  so  much  as  this 
little  observation  of  Count  Boro  tin’s,  occurring  in  the  middle 
of  the  dismallest  night-thoughts,  so  unexpectedly,  as  follows  : 

BERTHA. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Und  der  Himmel ,  sternelos , 

Starrt  aus  leeren  Augenhohlen 

In  das  ungeheuve  Grab 

Schwarz  herab  ! 

GRAF. 

Wie  sick  dock  die  Stunden  dehnen  ! 

Was  ist  icohl  die  Glocke,  Bertha  ? 

bertha  {is  just  condoling  with  him,  in  these  words)  : — 

And  tlie  welkin,  starless, 

Glares  from  empty  eye-holes, 

Black,  down  on  that  boundless  grave  ! 

*  COUNT. 

How  the  hours  do  linger  ! 

What  o'clock  is't ,  prithee  Bertha  ? 

A  more  delicate  turn,  we  venture  to  say,  is  rarely  to  be  met 
with  in  tragic  dialogue.  As  to  the  story  of  the  Ahnfrau,  it 
is,  naturally  enough,  of  the  most  heart-rending  description. 
This  Ancestress  is  a  lady,  or  rather  the  ghost  of  a  lady,  for 
she  has  been  defunct  some  centuries,  who  in  life  had  commit¬ 
ted  what  we  call  an  ‘indiscretion;’  which  indiscretion  the 
unpolite  husband  punished,  one  would  have  thought  suffi¬ 
ciently,  by  running  her  through  the  body.  However,  the 
Schicksal  of  Grillparzer  does  not  think  it  sufficient  ;  but  far¬ 
ther  dooms  the  fair  penitent  to  walk  as  goblin,  till  the  last 
branch  of  her  family  be  extinct.  Accordingly  she  is  heard, 
from  time  to  time,  slamming  doors  and  the  like,  and  now  and 
then  seen  with  dreadful  goggle-eyes  and  other  ghost-appur¬ 
tenances,  to  the  terror  not  only  of  servant  people,  but  of  old 


53 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


Count  Borotin,  her  now  sole  male  descendant,  whose  after¬ 
noon  nap  she,  on  one  occasion,  cruelly  disturbs.  This  Count 
Borotin  is  really  a  worthy  prosing  old  gentleman  ;  only  he 
had  a  son  long  ago  drowned  in  a  fishpond  (body  not  found)  ; 
and  has  still  a  highly  accomplished  daughter,  whom  there  is 
none  offering  to  wed,  except  one  Jaromir,  a  person  of  un¬ 
known  extraction,  and  to  all  appearance  of  the  lightest  purse  ; 
nay,  as  it  turns  out  afterwards,  actually  the  head  of  a  Ban¬ 
ditti  establishment,  which  had  long  infested  the  neighbouring 
forests.  However,  a  Captain  of  foot  arrives  at  this  juncture, 
utterly  to  root  out  these  Bobbers  ;  and  now  the  strangest 
things  come  to  light.  For  who  should  this  Jaromir  prove  to 
be  but  poor  old  Borotin’ s  drowned  son  ;  not  drowned,  but 
stolen  and  bred  up  by  these  Outlaws  ;  the  brother,  therefore, 
of  his  intended  ;  a  most  truculent  fellow7,  who  fighting  for  his 
life  unwittingly  kills  his  own  father,  and  drives  his  bride  to 
poison  herself  ;  in  which  wise,  as  was  also  Giles  Scroggins’ 
case,  he  ‘  cannot  get  married.’  The  reader  sees,  all  this  is 
not  to  be  accomplished  without  some  jarring  and  tumult.  In 
fact,  there  is  a  frightful  uproar  everywhere  throughout  that 
night  ;  robbers  dying,  musketry  discharging,  women  shriek¬ 
ing,  men  swearing,  and  the  Ahnfrau  herself  emerging  at  in¬ 
tervals,  as  the  genius  of  the  whole  discord.  But  time  and 
hours  bring  relief,  as  they  always  do.  Jaromir  in  the  long- 
run  likewise  succeeds  in  dying  ;  whereupon  the  whole  Boro¬ 
tin  lineage  having  gone  to  the  Devil,  the  Ancestress  also 
retires  thither, — at  least  makes  the  upper  world  rid  of  her 
presence  ;  and  the  piece  ends  in  deep  stillness.  _  Of  this  poor 
Ancestress  we  shall  only  say  farther  :  Wherever  she  be,  re- 
quiescat !  req  uiescat ! 

As  we  mentioned  above,  the  Fate-method  of  manufactur¬ 
ing  tragic  emotion  seems  to  have  yielded  Grillparzer  himself 
little  contentment  ;  for  after  this  Ahnfrau,  we  hear  no  more 
of  it.  His  Konig  Ottolcars  Gluck  und  Ende  (King  Ottokar’s 
Fortune  and  End)  is  a  much  more  innocent  piece,  and  pro¬ 
ceeds  in  quite  a  different  strain  ;  aiming  to  subdue  us  not 
by  old-women’s  fables  of  Destiny,  but  by  the  accumulated 
splendour  of  thrones  and  principalities,  the  cruel  or  magnani- 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


53 


mous  pride  of  Austrian  Emperors  and  Bohemian  conquerors, 
the  wit  of  chivalrous  courtiers,  and  beautiful  but  shrewish 
queens  ;  the  whole  set-off  by  a  proper  intermixture  of  coro¬ 
nation-ceremonies,  Hungarian  dresses,  whiskered  halberdiers, 
alarms  of  battle,  and  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious 
war.  There  is  even  some  attempt  at  delineating  character 
in  this  Play  :  certain  of  the  dramatis  personae  are  evidently 
meant  to  differ  from  certain  others,  not  in  dress  and  name 
only,  but  in  nature  and  mode  of  being  ;  so  much  indeed  they 
repeatedly  assert,  or  hint,  and  do  their  best  to  make  good, — 
unfortunately,  however,  with  very  indifferent  success.  In 
fact,  these  dramatis  personae  are  rubrics  and  titles  rather  than 
persons  ;  for  most  part,  mere  theatrical  automata,  with  only 
a  mechanical  existence.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Grillpar- 
zer  cannot  communicate  a  poetic  life  to  any  character  or  ob¬ 
ject  ;  and  in  this,  were  it  in  no  other  way,  he  evinces  the  in¬ 
trinsically  prosaic  nature  of  his  talent.  These  personages  of 
his  have,  in  some  instances,  a  certain  degree  of  metaphysical 
truth  ;  that  is  to  say,  one  portion  of  their  structure,  psycholog¬ 
ically  viewed,  corresponds  with  the  other  ; — so  far  all  is  well 
enough  :  but  to  unite  these  merely  scientific  and  inanimate 
qualities  into  a  living  man  is  work  not  for  a  Playwright,  but 
for  a  Dramatist.  Nevertheless,  Konicj  Ottokar  is  comparatively 
a  harmless  tragedy.  It  is  full  of  action,  striking  enough, 
though  without  any  discernible  coherence  ;  and  with  so  much 
both  of  flirting  and  fighting,  with  so  many  weddings,  funerals, 
processions,  encampments,  it  must  be,  we  should  think,  if  the 
tailor  and  decorationist  do  their  duty,  a  very  comfortable 
piece  to  see  acted  ;  especially  on  the  Vienna  boards,  where  it 
has  a  national  interest,  Podolph  of  Hapsburg  being  a  main 
personage  in  it. 

The  model  of  this  Ottokar  we  imagine  to  have  been  Schil¬ 
ler’s  Piccolomini ;  a  poem  of  similar  materials  and  object  ; 
but  differing  from  it  as  a  living  rose  from  a  mass  of  dead 
rose-leaves,  or  even  of  broken  Italian  gumflowers.  It  seems 
as  though  Grillparzer  had  hoped  to  subdue  us  by  a  sufficient 
multitude  of  wonderful  scenes  and  circumstances,  without  in- 
’  quiring,  with  any  painful  solicitude,  whether  the  soul  and 


54 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


meaning  of  them  were  presented  to  us  or  not.  Herein  truly, 
we  believe,  lies  the  peculiar  knack  or  playwright-mystery  of 
Ottokar :  that  its  effect  is  calculated  to  depend  chiefly  on  its 
quantity  ;  on  the  mere  number  of  astonishments,  and  joyful 
or  deplorable  adventures  there  brought  to  light ;  abundance 
in  superficial  contents  compensating  the  absence  of  c-allida 
junctura .  Which  second  method  of  tragic  manufacture  we 
hold  to  be  better  than  the  first,  but  still  far  from  good.  At 
the  same  time,  it  is  a  very  common  method,  both  in  Tragedy 
and  elsewhere  ;  nay,  we  hear  persons  whose  trade  it  is  to 
write  metre,  or  be  otherwise  ‘imaginative,’  professing  it 
openly  as  the  best  they  know.  Do  not  these  men  go  about 
collecting  ‘  features  ;  ’  ferreting  out  strange  incidents,  mur¬ 
ders,  duels,  ghost-apparitions,  over  the  habitable  globe?  Of 
which  features  and  incidents  when  they  have  gathered  a  suffi¬ 
cient  stock,  what  more  is  needed  than  that  they  be  ample 
enough,  high-coloured  enough,  though  huddled  into  any  case 
(Novel,  Tragedy  or  Metrical  Romance)  that  will  hold  them 
all  ?  Nevertheless  this  is  agglomeration,  not  creation ;  and 
avails  little  in  Literature.  Quantity,  it  is  a  certain  fact,  will 
not  make  up  for  defect  of  quality  ;  nor  are  the  gayest  hues  of 
any  service,  unless  there  be  a  likeness  painted  from  them. 
Better  were  it  for  Kbnig  Ottokar  had  the  story  been  twice  as 
short  and  twice  as  expressive.  Dor  it  is  still  true,  as  in  Cer¬ 
vantes’  time,  nunca  to  bueno  fue  macho.  WThat  avails  the 
dram  of  brandy,  while  it  swims  chemically  united  with  its 
barrel  of  wort  ?  Let  the  distiller  pass  it  and  repass  it  though 
his  limbecs  ;  for  it  is  the  drops  of  pure  alcohol  that  we  want, 
not  the  gallons  of  wrater,  which  may  be  had  in  every  ditch. 

On  the  whole,  however,  we  remember  Kbnig  Ottokar  with¬ 
out  animosity  ;  and  to  prove  that  Grillparzer,  if  he  could  not 
make  it  poetical,  might  have  made  it  less  prosaic,  and  has  in 
fact  something  better  in  him  than  is  here  manifested,  we  shall 
quote  one  passage,  which  strikes  us  as  really  rather  sweet  and 
natural.  King  Ottokar  is  in  the  last  of  his  fields,  no  pros¬ 
pect  before  him  but  death  or  captivity ;  and  soliloquising  on 
his  past  misdeeds  :  * 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


55 


I  have  not  borne  me  wisely  in  tliy  World, 

Thou  great,  all-judging  God!  Like  storm  and  tempest, 

I  traversed  thy  fair  garden,  wasting  it : 

’  Tis  thine  to  waste,  for  thou  alone  canst  heal. 

Was  evil  not  my  aim,  yet  how  did  I, 

Poor  worm,  presume  to  ape  the  Lord  of  Worlds, 

And  through  the  Bad  seek  out  a  way  to  the  Good ! 

My  fellow  man,  sent  thither  for  his  joy, 

An  End,  a  Self,  within  thy  World  a  World, — 

For  thou  hast  fashioned  him  a  marvellous  work, 

With  lofty  brow,  erect  in  look,  strange  sense, 

And  clothed  him  in  the  garment  of  thy  Beauty, 

And  wondrously  encircled  him  with  wonders  ; 

He  hears,  and  sees,  and  feels,  has  pain  and  pleasure: 

He  takes  him  food,  and  cunning  powers  come  forth, 

And  work  and  work,  within  their  secret  chambers, 

And  build  him  up  his  House  :  no  royal  Palace 
Is  comparable  to  the  frame  of  Man  !  * 

And  I  have  cast  them  forth  from  me  by  thousands, 

For  whims,  as  men  throw  rubbish  from  their  door. 

And  none  of  all  these  slain  but  had  a  Mother  * 

Who,  as  she  bore  him  in  sore  travail, 

Had  clasped  him  fondly  to  her  fostering  breast  ; 

A  Father  who  had  blessed  him  as  his  pride, 

And  nurturing,  watched  over  him  long  years  : 

If  he  but  hurt  the  skin  upon  his  finger, 

There  would  they  run,  with  anxious  look,  to  bind  it, 

And  tend  it,  cheering  him,  until  it  healed  ; 

And  it  was  but  a  finger  the  skin  o’  the  finger  ! 

And  I  have  trod  men  down  in  heaps  and  squadrons, 

For  the  stern  iron  opened  out  a  way 
To  their  warm  living  hearts. — O  God  ! 

Wilt  thou  go  into  judgment  with  me,  spare 
My  suffering  people. 1 

Passages  of  this  sort,  scattered  here  and  there  over  Grill- 
parzer’s  Plays,  and  evincing  at  least  an  amiable  tenderness  of 
natural  disposition,  make  us  regret  the  more  to  condemn  him. 
In  fact,  we  have  hopes  that  he  is  not  born  to  be  forever  a 
Playwright.  A  true  though  feeble  vein  of  poetic  talent  he 
really  seems  to  possess  ;  and  such  purity  of  heart  as  may  yet, 

1  Konig  Ottokar ,  180-1 


56 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS . 


with  assiduous  study,  lead  him  into  his  proper  field.  For  we 
do  reckon  him  a  conscientious  man,  and  honest  lover  of  Art ; 
nay  this  incessant  fluctuation  in  his  dramatic  schemes  is  itself 
a  good  omen.  Besides  this  Ahnfrau  and  Ottokar,  he  has  writ¬ 
ten  two  dramas,  Sappho  and  Der  Goldene  Vliess  (The  Golden 
Fleece),  on  quite  another  principle  ;  aiming  apparently  at 
some  Classic  model,  or  at  least  at  some  French  reflex  of  such 
a  model.  Sappho,  which  we  are  sorry  to  learn  is  not  his  last 
piece,  but  his  second,  appears  to  us  very  considerably  the 
most  faultless  production  of  his  we  are  yet  acquainted  with. 
There  is  a  degree  of  grace  and  simplicity  in  it,  a  softness, 
polish  and  general  good  taste,  little  to  be  expected  from  the 
author  of  the  Ahnf  rau :  if  he  cannot  bring  out  the  full  tragic 
meaning  of  Sappho’s  situation,  he  contrives,  with  laudable 
dexterity,  to  avoid  the  ridicule  that  lies  within  a  single  step 
of  it ;  his  Drama  is  weak  and  thin,  but  innocent,  lovable  ;  nay 
the  last  scene  strikes  us  as  even  poetically  meritorious.  His 
Goldene  Vliess  we  suspect  to  be  of  similar  character,  but  have 
not  yet  found  time  and  patience  to  study  it.  We  repeat  our 
hope  of  one  day  meeting  Grillparzer  in  a  more  honourable 
calling  than  this  of  Playwright,  or  even  fourth-rate  Dramatist ; 
which  titles,  as  was  said  above,  we  have  not  given  him  with¬ 
out  regret ;  and  shall  be  truly  glad  to  cancel  for  whatever 
better  one  he  may  yet  chance  to  merit. 


But  if  we  felt  a  certain  reluctance  in  classing  Grillparzer 
among  the  Playwrights,  no  such  feeling  can  have  place  with 
regard  to  the  second  name  on  our  list,  that  of  Doctor  August 
Klingemann.  Dr.  Ixlingemann  is  one  of  the  most  indisput¬ 
able  Playwrights  now  extant ;  nay  so  superlative  is  his  vigour 
in  this  department,  we  might  even  designate  him  the  Play¬ 
wright.  His  manner  of  proceeding  is  quite  different  from 
Grillparzer’s  ;  not  a  wavering  ever-changed  method,  or  com¬ 
bination  of  methods,  as  the  other’s  was  ;  but  a  fixed  principle 
of  action,  which  he  follows  with  unflinching  courage  ;  his  own 
mind  being  to  all  appearance  highly  satisfied  with  it.  If  Grill¬ 
parzer  attempted  to  overpower  us,  now  by  the  method  of  Fate, 
now  by  that  of  pompous  action,  and  grandiloquent  or  lachry- 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


57 


mose  sentiment,  heaped  on  us  in  too  rich  abundance,  Klinge- 
mann,  without  neglecting*  any  of  these  resources,  seems  to 
place  his-  chief  dependence  on  a  surer  and  readier  stay, — on 
his  magazines  of  rosin, _oil-paper,  vizards,  scarlet-drapery  and 
gunpowder.  What  thunder  and  lightning,  magic-lantern 
transparencies,  death’s-heads,  fire-showers  and  plush-cloaks 
can  do,  is  here  done.  Abundance  of  churchyard  and  chapel 
scenes,  in  the  most  tempestuous  weather  ;  to  say  nothing  of 
battle-fields,  gleams  of  scoured  arms  here  and  there  in  the 
Wood,  and  even  occasional  shots  heard  in  the  distance.  Then 
there  are  such  scowls  and  malignant  side-glances,  ashy  pale¬ 
nesses,  stampings  and  hysterics,  as  might,  one  would  think, 
wring  the  toughest  bosom  into  drops  of  pity.  For  not  only 
are  the  looks  and  gestures  of  these  people  of  the  most  heart¬ 
rending  description,  but  their  words  and  feelings  also  (for 
Klingemann  is  no  half-artist)  are  of  a  piece  with  them  :  gor¬ 
geous  inflations,  the  purest  innocence,  highest  magnanimity  ; 
godlike  sentiment  of  all  sorts  ;  everywhere  the  finest  tragic 
humour.  The  moral  too  is  genuine  ;  there  is  the  most  anxi- 
.  ous  regard  to  virtue  ;  indeed  a  distinct  patronage  both  of 
Providence  and  the  Devil.  In  this  manner  does  Dr.  Klinge¬ 
mann  compound  his  dramatic  electuaries,  no  less  cunningly 
than  Dr.  Kitchiner  did  his  ‘  peptic  persuaders  ;  ’  and  truly  of 
the  former  we  must  say,  that  their  operation  is  nowise  un¬ 
pleasant  ;  nay  to  our  shame  be  it  spoken,  we  have  even  read 
these  Plays  with  a  certain  degree  of  satisfaction  ;  and  shall 
declare  that  if  any  man  wish  to  amuse  himself  irrationally, 
here  is  the  ware  for  his  money. 

Klingemann ’s  latest  dramatic  undertaking  is  Ahasuer ;  a 
purely  original  invention,  on  which  he  seems  to  pique  himself 
somewhat  ;  confessing  his  opinion  that,  now  when  the  ‘  birth- 
pains ’are  over,  the  character  of  Ahasuer  may  possibty  do  good 
service  in  many  a  future  drama.  We  are  not  prophets,  or  sons 
of  prophets  ;  so  shall  leave  this  prediction  resting  on  its  own 
basis.  Ahasuer,  the  reader  will  be  interested  to  learn,  is  no 
other  than  the  Wandering  Jew  or  Shoemaker  of  Jerusalem  : 
concerning  whom  there  are  two  things  to  be  remarked.  The 
first  is,  the  strange  name  of  the  Shoemaker :  why  do  Klinge- 


58 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


mann  and  all  the  Germans  call  the  man  Ahasuer,  when  his 
authentic  Christian  name  is  John ;  Joannes  a  Temporibus 
Christi,  or,  for  brevity’s  sake,  simply  Joannes  a  Temporibus? 
This  should  be  looked  into.  Our  second  remark  is  of  the 
circumstance  that  no  Historian  or  Narrator,  neither  Schiller, 
Strada,  Thuanus,  Monro,  nor  Dugald  Dalgetty,  makes  any 
mention  of  Ahasuer’s  having  been  present  at  the  Battle  of 
Liitzen.  Possibly  they  thought  the  fact  too  notorious  to  need 
mention.  Here  at  all  events,  he  was  ;  nay  as  we  infer,  he 
-  must  have  been  at  Waterloo  also  ;  and  probably  at  Trafalgar, 
though  in  which  Fleet  is  not  so  clear ;  for  he  takes  a  hand 
in  all  great  battles  and  national  emergencies,  at  least  is  wit¬ 
ness  of  them,  being  bound  to  it  by  his  destiny.  Such  is 
the  peculiar  occupation  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  as  brought 
to  light  in  this  Tragedy  :  his  other  specialities, — that  he 
cannot  lodge  above  three  nights  in  one  place  ;  that  he  is 
of  a  melancholic  temperament ;  above  all,  that  he  cannot 
die,  not  by  hemp  or  steel,  or  Prussic-acid  itself,  but  must 
travel  on  till  the  general  consummation, — are  familiar  to  all 
historical  readers.  Ahasuer’s  task  at  this  Battle  of  Liitzen 
seems  to  have  been  a  very  easy  one  :  simply  to  see  the  Lion 
of  the  North  brought  down  ;  not  by  a  cannon-shot,  as  is  gen¬ 
erally  believed,  but  by  the  traitorous  pistol-bullet  of  one 
Heinyn  von  Warth,  a  bigoted  Catholic,  who  had  pretended  to 
desert  from  the  Imperialists,  that  he  might  find  some  such 
opportunity.  Unfortunately,  Heinyn,  directly  after  this  feat, 
falls  into  a  sleepless,  half-rabid  state  ;  comes  home  to  Castle 
Warth,  frightens  his  poor  Wife  and  worthy  old  noodle  of  a 
Father ;  then  skulks  about,  for  some  time,  now  praying, 
oftener  cursing  and  swearing  ;  till  at  length  the  Swedes  lay 
hold  of  him  and  kill  him.  Ahasuer,  as  usual,  is  in  at  the 
death :  in  the  interim,  however,  he  has  saved  Lady  Heinyn 
from  drowning,  though  as  good  as  j)oisoned  her  with  the  look 
of  his  strange  stony  eyes  ;  and  now  his  business  to  all  appear¬ 
ance  being  over,  he  signifies  in  strong  language  that  he  must 
begone  :  thereupon  he  ‘  steps  solemnly  into  the  wood  ;  Wasa- 
c  burg  looks  after  him  surprised  :  the  rest  kneel  round  the 
‘  corpse  ;  the  Requiem  faintly  continues  ;  ’  and  what  is  still 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


59 


more  surprising,  ‘  the  curtain  falls.5  Such  is  the  simple  '  ac¬ 
tion  and  stern  catastrophe  of  this  Tragedy  ;  concerning  which 
it  were  superfluous  for  us  to  speak  farther  in  the  way  of 
criticism.  We  shall  only  add,  that  there  is  a  dreadful  litho¬ 
graphic  print  in  it,  representing  c  Ludwig  Devrient  as  Ahas- 
uer  ; 5  in  that  very  act  of  c  stepping  solemnly  into  the  wood  ; 5 
and  uttering  these  final  words :  “  Ich  aber  wandle  wetter  — 
wetter —  wetter  !  ”  We  have  heard  of  Herr  Devrient  as  of  the 
best  actor  in  Germany  ;  and  can  now  bear  testimony,  if  there 
be  truth  in  this  plate,  that  he  is  one  of  the  ablest-bodied  men. 
A  most  truculent,  rawboned  figure,  c  with  bare  legs  and  red 
leather  shoes ; 5  huge  black  beard  ;  eyes  turned  inside  out ; 
and  uttering  these  extraordinary  words  :  “  But  I  go  on  —  on 
—on ! 55 

•Now,  however,  we  must  give  a  glance  at  Klingemann’s 
other  chief  performance  in  this  line,  the  Tragedy  of  Faust. 
Dr.  Klingeinann  admits  that  the  subject  has  been  often 
treated ;  that  Goethe’s  Faust  in  particular  has  c  dramatic 
points  ( dramatische  momente)  : 5  but  the  business  is  to  give  it 
an  entire  dramatic  superficies,  to  make  it  an  acid  dramatische, 
a  ‘  genuinely  dramatic  5  tragedy.  Setting  out  with  this  laud¬ 
able  intention,  Dr.  Klingemann  has  produced  a  Faust,  which 
differs  from  that  of  Goethe  in  more  than  one  particular. 
The  hero  of  this  piece  is  not  the  old  Faust,  doctor  in  philos¬ 
ophy  ;  driven  desperate  by  the  uncertainty  of  human  knowl¬ 
edge  :  but  plain  John  Faust,  the  printer,  and  even  the  in¬ 
ventor  of  gunpowder ;  driven  desperate  by  his  ambitious 
temper,  and  a  total  deficiency  of  cash.  He  has  an  excellent 
wife,  an  excellent  blind  father,  both  of  whom  would  fain  have 
him  be  peaceable,  and  work  at  his  trade  ;  but  being  an  adept 
in  the  black-art,  he  determines  rather  to  relieve  himself  in 
that  way.  Accordingly,  he  proceeds  to  make  a  contract  with 
the  Devil,  on  what  we  should  consider  pretty  advantageous 
terms ;  the  Devil  being  bound  to  serve  him  in  the  most  ef¬ 
fectual  manner,  and  Faust  at  liberty  to  commit  four  mortal 
sins  before  any  hair  of  his  head  can  be  harmed.  However, 
as  will  be  seen,  the  Devil  proves  Yorkshire  ;  and  Faust,  natu¬ 
rally  enough,  finds  himself  quite  jockeyed  in  the  long-run. 


60 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


Another  characteristic  distinction  of  Klingemann  is  his 
manner  of  embodying  this  same  Evil  Principle,  when  at  last 
he  resolves  on  introducing  him  to  sight ;  for  all  these  con¬ 
tracts  and  preliminary  matters  are  very  properly  managed 
behind  the  scenes ;  only  the  main  points  of  the  transaction 
being  indicated  to  the  spectator  by  some  thunderclap,  or 
the  like.  Here  is  no  cold  mocking  Mephistopheles  ;  but  a 
swaggering,  jovial,  West  India-looking  ‘  Stranger,’  with  a  ru¬ 
bicund,  indeed  quite  brick-coloured  face,  which  Faust  at  first 
mistakes  for  the  effect  of  hard-drinking.  However,  it  is  a  re¬ 
markable  feature  of  this  Stranger,  that  always  on  the  intro¬ 
duction  of  any  religious  topic,  or  the  mention  of  any  sacred 
name,  he  strikes  his  glass  down  on  the  table,  and  generally 
breaks  it. 

For  some  time,  after  his  grand  bargain,  Faust’s  affairs  go 
on  triumphantly,  on  the  great  scale,  and  he  seems  to  feel 
pretty  comfortable.  But  the  Stranger  shows  him  c  his  wife,’ 
Helena,  the  most  enchanting  creature  in  the  world  ;  and  the 
most  cruel-hearted, — for,  notwithstanding  the  easy  temper  of 
her  husband,  she  will  not  grant  Faust  the  smallest  encourage¬ 
ment,  till  he  have  killed  Kathe,  his  own  living  helpmate, 
against  whom  he  entertains  no  manner  of  grudge.  Neverthe¬ 
less,  reflecting  that  he  has  a  stock  of  four  mortal  sins  to  draw 
upon,  and  may  well  venture  one  for  such  a  prize,  he  deter¬ 
mines  on  killing  Kathe.  But  here  matters  take  a  bad  turn  : 
for  having  poisoned  poor  Kathe,  he  discovers,  most  unex¬ 
pectedly,  that  she  is  in  the  family-way  ;  and  therefore  that  he 
has  committed  not  one  sin  but  two !  Nay,  before  the  inter¬ 
ment  can  take  place,  he  is  farther  reduced,  in  a  sort  of  acci¬ 
dental  self-defence,  to  kill  his  father  ;  thus  accomplishing  his 
third  mortal  sin  ;  with  which  third,  as  we  shall  presently  dis¬ 
cover,  his  whole  allotment  is  exhausted  ;  a  fourth,  that  he 
knew  not  of,  being  already  on  the  score  against  him  !  From 
this  point,  it  cannot  surprise  us  that  bad  grows  worse  :  catch- 
poles  are  out  in  pursuit  -of  him,  c  black  masks  ’  dance  round 
him  in  a  most  suspicious  manner,  the  brickfaced  Stranger 
seems  to  laugh  at  him,  and  Helena  will  nowhere  make  her 
appearance.  That  the  sympathising  reader  may  see  with  his 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


61 


own  eyes  liow  poor  Faust  is  beset  at  this  juncture,  we  shall 
quote  a  scene  or  two.  The  first  may,  properly  enough,  be 

that  of  those  ‘  black  masks.’ 

•  —  * 

SCENE  SEVENTH. 

A  lighted  Hall. 

(In  the  distance  is  heard  quick  dancing  music.  Masks  pass  from  time  to 
time  over  the  Stage ,  but  all  dressed  in  black ,  and  with  vizards  perfectly  . 
close.  After  a  pause,  faust  plunges  wildly  in,  with  a  full  goblet  in  his 
hand. ) 

faust  (rushing  stormfully  into  the  foreground). 

Ha  !  Poison,  ’stead  of  wine,  that  I  intoxicate  me  ! 

Your  wine  makes  sober, — burning  fire  bring  us! 

Off  with  your  drink ! — and  blood  is  in  it  too  ! 

[Shuddering,  he  dashes  the  goblet  from  his  hand. 
My  father’s  blood, — I’ve  drunk  my  .fill  of  that !  1  With  increasing  tumult. 
Yet  curses  on  him !  curses,  that  he  begot  me  ! 

Curse  on  my  mother’s  bosom,  that  it  bore  me  ! 

Curse  on  the  gossip-crone  that  stood  by  her, 

And  did  not  strangle  me  at  my  first  scream ! 

How  could  I  help  this  being  that  was  given  me  ? 

Accursed  art  thou,  Nature,  that  hast  mock’d  me ! 

Accursed  I,  that  let  myself  be  mock’d  !  — 

And  thou,  strong  Being,  that,  to  make  the  sport, 

Enclosedst  the  fire-soul  in  this  dungeon, 

That  so  despairing  it  might  strive  for  freedom — 

Accur.  .  .  [He  shrinks  terrorstruck. 

No,  not  the  fourth.  .  .  .  'the  blackest  sin  ! 

No !  No  !  [In  the  excess  of  his  outbreaking  anguish ,  he  hides  his 

face  in  his  hands. 

O,  I  am  altogether  wretched  ! 

(Three  black  Masks  come  toicards  him.) 

FIRST  MASK. 

Hey !  merry  friend ! 

SECOND  MASK. 

Hey  !  merry  brother ! 

»  i  •  •  -  '  ■  \ 

third  mask  (reiterating  icith  a  cutting  tone). 

Merry ! 

faust  (breaking  out  in  wild  humour ,  and  looking  round 

among  them). 

Hey  !  Merry,  then ! 


62 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


FIRST  MASK. 

Will  any  one  catch  flies  ? 

.  SECOND  MASK. 

A  long  life  yet ;  to  midnight  all  the  way  ! 

THIRD  MASK. 

And  after  that,  such  pleasure  without  end  ! 

[  The  music  suddenly  ceases,  and  a  clock  strikes  thrice . 

faust  {astonished). 

What  is  it  ? 

FIRST  MASK. 

Wants  a  quarter,  Sir,  of  twelve  t 
SECOND  MASK. 

Then  we  have  time  ! 

THIRD  MASK. 

Ay,  time  enough  for  jigging  I 
FIRST  MASK. 

And  not  till  midnight  comes  the  shot  to  pay  ! 

faust  {shuddering). 

What  want  ye  ? 

first  mask  {clasps  his  hand  abruptly). 

Hey  !  To  dance  a  step  with  thee  ! 

faust  {plucks  his  hands  back). 

Off!— Fire  !  ! 

FIRST  MASK. 

Tush  !  A  spark  or  so  of  brimstone  ! 
SECOND  MASK. 

Art  dreaming,  brother  ? 

THIRD  MASK. 

Holla  !  Music,  there  ! 

[The  music  begins  again  in  the  distance. 

first  mask  {secretly  laughing). 

The  spleen  is  biting  him  ! 

SECOND  MASK. 

Hark  !  at  the  gallows, 


What  jovial  footing  of  it ! 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


63 


THIRD  MASK. 

Thither  must  I !  [Exit. 

FIRST  MASK. 

Below,  too  !  down  in  Purgatory  !  Hear  ye  ? 

SECOND  MASK. 

A  stirring  there  f  ’Tis  time,  then  !  Hui,  your  servant ! 

FIRST  MASK  (to  FAUST). 

Till  midnight !  [Exeunt  both  Masks  hastily. 

faust  ( clasping  his  brow). 

Ha  !  What  begirds  me  here  ? 

[Stepping  vehemently  forward. 
Down  with  your  masks  !  [  Violent  knocking  without . 

What  horrid  uproar  next ! 

Is  madness  coming  on  me  ? — 

yoice  ( violently ,  from  without ). 

Open,  in  the  king’s  name  ! 

[The  music  ceases.  Thunderclap. 

faust  ( staggers  back). 

I  have  a  heavy  dream  ! — Sure  His  not  doomsday  ? 

voice  (as  before). 

Here  is  the  murderer  !  Open  !  Open,  then  ! 

faust  (wipes  his  brow). 

Has  agony  unmanned  me  ? — 

SCENE  EIGHTH. 

BAILIFFS. 

Where  is  he  ?  where  ? — 

♦ 

From  these  merely  terrestrial  constables,  the  jovial  Stranger 
easily  delivers  Faust  :  but  now  comes  the  long-looked-for  tete- 
d-tete  with  Helena. 


SCENE  TWELFTH. 

(faust  leads  Helena  on  the  stage.  She  also  is  close-masked.  The 

other  Masks  withdraw.) 

faust  (warm  and  glowing). 

No  longer  strive,  proud  beauty  1 


64 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


HELENA. 

Ha,  wild  stormer ! 

FAUST. 

My  bosom  burns—! 

HELENA. 

The  time  is  not  yet  come. — 

— And  so  forth,  through  four  pages  of  flame  and  ice,  till  at 
last, 

faust  ( insisting ). 

Off  witli  tbe  mask,  then ! 

Helena  ( still  icilder). 

Hey  !  tbe  marriage-hour  ! — 

FAUST. 

♦ 

Off  with  the  mask  !  ! 

HELENA. 

’Tis  striking !  ! 

FAUST. 

One  kiss  ! 

HELENA. 

Take  it !  ! 

[  The  mask  and  head-dress  fall  from  her  ;  and  she  grins  at  him  from 
a  death's-head :  loud  thunder  ;  and  the  music  ends ,  as  with  a  shriek , 
in  dissonances. 

faust  ( staggers  back). 

O  horror  ! — Woe  ! 

HELENA. 

The  couch  is  ready,  ffhere  ! 

Come,  Bridegroom,  to  tliy  fire-nuptials  ! 

[She  sinks,  with  a  crashing  thunderpeal ,  into  the  ground ,  out  of 
which  issue  flames. 


All  this  is  bad  enough  ;  but  mere  child’s  play  to  the  ‘  Thir¬ 
teenth  Scene,’  the  last  of  this  strange  eventful  history  :  with 
some  parts  of  which  we  propose  to  send  our  readers  weeping 
to  their  beds. 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


65 


SCENE  THIRTEENTH. 

( The  stranger  hurls  faust,  whose  face  is  deadly  pale ,  back  to  the 

stage ,  by  the  hair. ) 

FAUST. 

Ha,  let  me  fly  ! — Come  !  Come  ! 

stranger  (with  wild  thundering  tone). 

’Tis  over  now  ! 

FAUST. 

That  horrid  visage  !  — 

[ Throwing  himself,  in  a  tremor ,  on  the  stranger’s  breast. 
Thou  art  my  Friend  ! 

Protect  me  !  ! 

stranger  (laug7iing  aloud). 

Ha!  ha!  ha! 

*  *  *  * 


FAUST. 

O  save  me  !  ! 

stranger  ( clutches  him  with  irresistible  force  ;  whirls  him  round ,  so 
that  faust’s  face  is  towards  the  spectators,  whilst  his  own  is  turned 
away  ;  and  thus  he  looks  at  him,  and  bawls  with  thundering  voice) : 

’Tis  I !  !  — 

% 

[a  clap  of  thunder,  faust,  with  gestures  of  deepest  horror ,  rushes 
to  the  ground,  uttering  an  inarticulate  cry.  The  other ,  after  a  pause 
continues ,  with  cutting  coolness  : 

Is  that  the  mighty  Hell-subduer, 

That  threatened  me  ? — Ha,  me  !  !  [  With  highest  contempt. 

Worm  of  the  dust ! 

I  had  reserved  thy  torment  for — myself!  !  — 

Descend  to  other  hands,  be  sport  for  slaves  — 

Thou  art  too  small  for  me  !  ! 


faust  (rises  erect,  and  seems  to  recover  his  strength). 

Am  I  not  Faust  ?- 

STRANGER. 

Thou,  no ! 

faust  (rising  in  his  whole  vehemence). 

Accursed  !  Ha,  I  am  !  I  am ! 

Down  at  my  feet !  —  I  am  thy  master  ! 

fr  • 

o 


66 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


STRANGER. 

No  more !  ! 


faust  {wildly). 

More  ?  Ha  !  My  Bargain  !  ! 

STRANGER. 

Is  concluded  !  ! 

FAUST. 

Three  mortal  sins. — 

STRANGER. 

The  Fourth  too  is  committed. 

.  FAUST. 

My  Wife,  my  Child,  and  my  old  Father’s  blood — ! 

stranger  (holds  up  a  Parchment  to  him). 

And  here  thy  oicn !  — 

FAUST. 

That  is  my  covenant ! 


STRANGER. 

This  signature — was  thy  most  damning  sin. 

faust  {raging). 

Ha,  spirit  of  lies !  !  &c.,  &c. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

stranger  {in  highest  fury). 

Down,  thou  accursed  ! 


[He  drags  him  by  the  hair  towards  the  background  ;  at  this  moment , 
amid  violent  thunder  and  lightning ,  the  scene  changes  into  a  horrid 
wilderness  ;  in  the  background  of  which ,  a  yawning  Chasm :  into  this 
the  'Devil  hurls  Faust;  on  all  sides  Fire  rains  down,  so  that  the  whole 
interior  of  the  Cavern  seems  burning :  a  black  veil  descends  over  both , 
so  soon  as  Faust  is  got  under. 

faust  {huzzaing  in  wild  defiance). 

Ha,  down  !  Down  ! 

[ Thunder ,  lightning  and  fire.  Both  sink.  The  curtain  falls. 

On  considering  all  which  supernatural  transactions,  the 
bewildered  reader  has  no  theory  for  it,  except  that  Faust 
must,  in  Dr.  Cabanis’s  phrase,  have  laboured  under  ‘obstruc¬ 
tions  in  the  epigastric  region,’  and  all  this  of  the  Devil,  and 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


67 


Helena,  and  so  much  murder  and  carousing,  have  been  noth¬ 
ing  but  a  waking  dream,  or  other  atrabilious  phantasm  ;  and 
regrets  that  the  poor  Printer  had  not  rather  applied  to  some 
Abemethy,  on  the  subject,  or  even,  by  one  sufficient  dose 
of  Epsom-salt,  on  his  own  prescription,  put  an  end  to  the 
whole  matter,  and  restored  himself  to  the  bosom  of  his  af¬ 
flicted  family. 

Such,  then,  for  Dr.  Klingemann’s  part,  is  his  method  of 
constructing  Tragedies  ;  to  which  method  it  may  perhaps  be 
objected  that  there  is  a  want  of  originality  in  it  ;  for  do  not 
our  own  British  Playwrights  follow  precisely  the  same  plan  ? 
We  might  answer  that,  if  not  his  plan,  at  least  his  infinitely 
superior  execution  of  it  must  distinguish  Klingemann  :  but 
we  rather  think  his  claim  to  originality  rests  on  a  different 
ground ;  on  the  ground,  namely,  of  his  entire  contentment 
with  himself  and  with  this  his  dramaturgy  ;  and  the  cool 
heroism  with  which,  on  all  occasions,  he  avows  that  content¬ 
ment.  Here  is  no  poor  cowering  underfoot  Playwright,  beg¬ 
ging  the  public  for  God’s  sake  not  to  give  him  the  whipping 
which  he  deserves  ;  but  a  bold  perpendicular  Playwright, 
avowing  himself  as  such  ;  nay  mounted  on  the  top  of  his 
joinery,  and  therefrom  exercising  a  sharp  critical  superin¬ 
tendence  over  the  German  Drama  generally.  Klingemann, 
we  understand,  has  lately  executed  a  theatrical  Tour,  as  Don 
Quixote  did  various  Sallies ;  and  thrown  stones  into  most 
German  Playhouses,  and  at  various  German  Playwriters ;  of 
which  we  have  seen  only  his  assault  on  Tieck  ;  a  feat  com¬ 
parable  perhaps  to  that  ‘  never-imagined  adventure  of  the 
Windmills.”  Fortune,  it  is  said,  favours  the  brave  ;  and  the 
prayer  of  Burns’s  Kilmarnock  weaver  is  not  always  unheard 
of  Heaven.  In  conclusion,  we  congratulate  Dr.  Klingemann 
on  his  Manager-dignity  in  the  Brunswick  Theatre  ;  a  post  he 
seems  made  for,  almost  as  Bardolph  was  for  the  Eastcheap 
waitership. 

But  now,  like  his  own  Ahasuer,  Dr.  Klingemann  must  ‘  go 
on — on — on  :  ’  for  another  and  greater  Doctor  has  been  kept 
too  long  waiting,  whose  Seven  beautiful  Volumes  of  Drama- 


68 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


tische  Werke  might  well  secure  him  a  better  fate.  Dr.  Milli¬ 
ner,  of  all  these  Playwrights,  is  the  best  known  in  England  ; 
some  of  his  works  have  eveD,  we  believe,  been  translated  into 
our  language.  In  his  own  country,  his  fame,  or  at  least 
notoriety,  is  also  supreme  over  all  :  no  Playwright  of  this 
age  makes  such  a  noise  as  Milliner ;  nay,  many  there  are 
who  affirm  that  he  is  something  far  better  than  a  Playwright. 
Critics  of  the  sixth  and  lower  magnitudes,  in  every  corner 
of  Germany,  have  put  the  question  a  thousand  times :  Whether 
Milliner  is  not  a  Poet  and  Dramatist?  To  which  question,  as 
the  higher  authorities  maintain  an  obstinate  silence,  or,  if 
much  pressed,  reply  only  in  groans,  these  sixth-magnitude  men 
have  been  obliged  to  make  answer  themselves  ;  and  they 
have  done  it  with  an  emphasis  and  vociferation  calculated  to 
dispel  all  remaining  doubts  in  the  minds  of  men.  In  Miill- 
ner’s  mind,  at  least,  they  have  left  little  ;  a  conviction  the 
more  excusable,  as  the  playgoing  vulgar  seem  to  be  almost 
unanimous  in  sharing  it ;  and  thunders  of  applause,  nightly 
through  so  many  theatres  return  him  loud  acclaim.  Such  re¬ 
nown  is  pleasant  food  for  the  hungry  appetite  of  a  man,  and 
naturally,  he  rolls  it  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  his  tongue  :  but, 
after  all,  it  can  profit  him  but  little  ;  nay,  many  times,  what 
is  sugar  to  the  taste  may  be  sugar-of-lead  when  it  is  swal¬ 
lowed.  Better  were  it  for  Milliner,  we  think,  had’  fainter 
thunders  of  applause,  and  from  fewer  theatres,  greeted  him. 
For  what  good  is  in  it,  even  were  there  no  evil  ?  Though  a 
thousand  caps  leap  into  the  air  at  his  name,  his  own  stature 
is  no  hairsbreadth  higher  ;  neither  even  can  the  final  estimate 
of  its  height  be  thereby  in  the  smallest  degree  enlarged. 
From  gainsayers  these  greetings  provoke  only  a  stricter  scru¬ 
tiny  ;  the  matter  comes  to  be  accurately  known  at  last  ;  and 
he  who  has  been  treated  with  foolish  liberality  at  one  period, 
must  make  up  for  it  by  the  want  of  bare  necessaries  at 
another.  No  one  will  deny  that  Milliner  is  a  person  of  some 
considerable  talent :  we  understand  he  is,  or  was  once,  a 
Lawyer  ;  and  can  believe  that  he  may  have  acted,  and  talked, 
and  written,  very  prettily  in  that  capacity  :  but  to  set  up 
for  a  Poet  was  quite  a  different  enterprise,  in  which  we  reckon 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


69 


that  he  has  altogether  mistaken  his  road,  and  that  these  mob- 
cheers  have  led  him  farther  and  farther  astray. 

Several  years  ago,  on  the  faith  of  very  earnest  recommen¬ 
dation,  it  was  our  lot  to  read  one  of  Dr.  Milliner’s  Tragedies, 
the  Albanciserinn ;  with  which,  such  was  its  effect  on  us,  we 
could  willingly  enough  have  terminated  our  acquaintance 
with  Dr.  Miillner.  A  palpable  imitation  of  Schiller’s  Brant 
von  Messina  ;  without  any  philosophy  or  feeling  that  was  not 
either  perfectly  commonplace  or  perfectly  false,  often  both 
the  one  and  the  other  ;  inflated,  indeed,  into  a  certain  hollow 
bulk,  but  altogether  without  greatness  ;  being  built  through¬ 
out  on  mere  rant  and  clangor,  and  other  elements  of  the 
most  indubitable  Prose  :  such  a  work  could  not  but  be  satis¬ 
factory  to  us  respecting  Dr.  Milliner’s  genius  as  a  Poet ;  and 
time  being  precious,  and  the  world  wide  enough,  we  had 
privately  determined  that  we  and  Dr.  Miillner  were  each 
henceforth  to  pursue  his  own  course.  Nevertheless,  so  con¬ 
siderable  has  been  the  progress  of  our  worthy  friend  since 
then,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  that  his  labours  are  again 
forced  on  our  notice  :  for  we  reckon  the  existence  of  a  true 
Poet  in  any  country  to  be  so  important  a  fact,  that  even  the 
slight  probability  of  such  is  worthy  of  investigation.  Ac¬ 
cordingly  we  have  again  perused  the  Albanciserinn,  and  along 
with  it,  faithfully  examined  the  whole  Dramatic  Works  of 
Miillner,  published  in  Seven  Volumes,  on  beautiful  paper,  in 
small  shape  and  everyway  very  fit  for  handling.  The  whole 
tragic  works,  we  should  rather  say :  for  three  or  four  of  his 
comic  performances  sufficiently  contented  us  ;  and  some  two 
volumes  of  farces,  we  confess,  are  still  unread.  We  have  also 
carefully  gone  through,  and  with  much  less  difficulty,  the 
Prefaces,  Appendices,  and  other  prose  sheets,  wherein  the 
Author  exhibits  the  ‘ fata  libelli  ;  ’  defends  himself  from  unjust 
criticisms,  reports  just  ones,  or  himself  makes  such.  The 
toils  of  this  task  we  shall  not  magnify,  well  knowing  that 
man’s  life  is  a  fight  throughout :  only  having  now  gathered 
what  light  is  to  be  had  on  this  matter,  we  proceed  to  speak 
forth  our  verdict  thereon  ;  fondly  hoping  that  we  shall  then 
have  done  with  it,  for  an  indefinite  period  of  time. 


70 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


Dr.  Milliner,  then,  we  must  take  liberty  to  believe,  in  spite 
of  all  that  has  been  said  or  sung  upon  the  subject,  is  no 
Dramatist  ;  has  never  written  a  Tragedy,  and  in  all  human 
probability  will  never  write  one.  Grounds  for  this  harsh, 
negative  opinion,  did  the  burden  of  proof  lie  chiefly  on  our 
side,  we  might  state  in  extreme  abundance.  There  is  one 
ground,  however,  which,  if  our  observation  be  correct,  would 
virtually  include  all  the  rest.  Dr.  Milliner’s  whole  soul  and 
character,  to  the  deepest  root  we  can  trace  of  it  seems  prosaic, 
not  poetical ;  his  Dramas,  therefore,  like  whatever  else  he 
produces,  must  be  manufactured,  not  created  ;  nay,  we  think 
that  his  principle  of  manufacture  is  itself  rather  a  poor  and 
secondhand  one.  Vain  were  it  for  any  reader  to  search  in 
these  Seven  Volumes  for  an  opinion  any  deeper  or  clearer,  a 
sentiment  any  finer  or  higher,  than  may  conveniently  belong 
to  the  commonest  practising  advocate  :  except  stilting  heroics, 
which  the  man  himself  half  knows  to  be  false,  and  every  other 
man  easily  waives  aside,  there  is  nothing  here  to  disturb  the 
quiescence  either  of  heart  or  head.  This  man  is  a  Doctor 
utriusque  Juris,  most  probably  of  good  juristic  talent  ;  and 
nothing  more  whatever.  His  language  too,  all  accurately 
measured  into  feet,  and  good  current  German,  so  far  as  a 
foreigner  may  judge,  bears  similar  testimony.  Except  the 
rhyme  and  metre,  it  exhibits  no  poetical  symptom  :  without 
being  verbose,  it  is  essentially  meagre  and  watery  ;  no 
idiomatic  expressiveness,  no  melody,  no  virtue  of  any  kind  ; 
the  commonest  vehicle  for  the  commonest  meaning.  Not 
that  our  Doctor  is  destitute  of  metaphors  and  other  rhetorical 
furtherances  ;  but  that  these  also  are  of  the  most  trivial  char¬ 
acter  :  old  threadbare  material,  scoured  up  into  a  state  of 
shabby-gentility  ;  mostly  turning  on  ‘  light  ’  and  ‘  darkness  ;  ’ 
‘flashes  through  clouds,’  ‘fire  of  heart,’  ‘tempest  of  soul,’  and 
the  like,  which  can  profit  no  man  or  woman.  In  short,  we 
must  repeat  it,  Dr.  Milliner  has  yet  to  show  that  there  is  any 
particle  of  poetic  metal  in  him  ;  that  his  genius  is  other  than 
a  sober  clay-pit,  from  which  good  bricks  may  be  made  ;  but 
where  to  look  for  gold  or  diamonds  were  sheer  waste  of 
labour. 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


71 


% 


When  we  think  of  our  own  Maturin  and  Sheridan  Knowles, 
and  the  gala-day  of  popularity  which  they  also  once  enjoyed 
with  us,  we  can  be  at  no  loss  for  the  genus  under  which  Dr. 
Milliner  is  to  be  included  in  critical  physiology.  Neverthe¬ 
less,  in  marking  him  as  a  distinct  Playwright,  we  are  bound 
to  mention  that  in  general  intellectual  talent  he  show’s  him¬ 
self  very  considerably  superior  to  his  twro  German  brethren. 
He  has  a  much  better  taste  than  .Klingemann ;  rejecting  the 
aid  of  plush  and  gunpowder,  wre  may  say  altogether  ;  is  even 
at  the  pains  to  rhyme  great  part  of  his  Tragedies  ;  and  on 
the  wdiole,  writes  with  a  certain  care  and  decorous  compos¬ 
ure,  to  which  the  Brunswick  Manager  seems  totally  indiffer¬ 
ent.  Moreover,  he  appears  to  surpass  Grillparzer,  as  wTell  as 
Klingemann,  in  a  certain  force  both  of  judgment  and  passion  ; 
which  indeed  is  no  very  mighty  affair  ;  Grillparzer  being 
naturally  but  a  treble-pipe  in  these  matters  ;  and  Klinge¬ 
mann,  blowing  through  such  an  enormous  coach-horn,  that 
the  natural  note  goes  for  nothing,  becomes  a  mere  vibration 
in  that  all-subduing  volume  of  sound.  At  the  same  time,  it 
is  singular  enough  that  neither  Grillparzer  nor  Klingemann 
should  be  nearly  so  tough  reading  as  Milliner  ;  which,  how¬ 
ever,  we  declare  to  be  the  fact.  As  to  Klingemann,  he  is 
even  an  amusing  artist ;  there  is  such  a  briskness  and  heart 
in  him  ;  so  rich  is  he,  nay  so  exuberant  in  riches,  so  full  of 
explosions,  fire-flashes,  execrations  and  all  manner  of  catas¬ 
trophes  ;  and  then,  good  soul,  he  asks  no  attention  from  us, 
knows  his  trade  better  than  to  dream  of  asking  any.  Grill¬ 
parzer,  again,  is  a  sadder  and  perhaps  a  wiser  companion  ; 
longwinded  a  little,  but  peaceable  and  soft-hearted  :  his  mel¬ 
ancholy,  even  when  he  pules,  is  in  the  highest  degree  inoffen¬ 
sive,  and  we  can  often  weep  a  tear  or  two  for  him,  if  not  with 
him.  But  of  all  Tragedians,  may  the  indulgent  Heavens 
deliver  us  from  any  farther  traffic  with  Dr.  Milliner  !  This 
is  the  lukewarm,  which  wre  could  wish  to  be  either  cold  or 
hot.  Milliner  will  not  keep  us  awake,  while  vTe  read  him  ; 
yet  neither  w7ill  he,  like  Klingemann,  let  us  fairly  get  asleep. 
Ever  and  anon,  it  is  as  if  we  came  into  some  smooth  quies¬ 
cent  country  ;  and  the  soul  flatters  herself  that  here  at  last 


72 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


she  may  be  allowed  to  fall  back  on  her  cushions,  the  eyes 
meanwhile,  like  two  safe  postilions,  comfortably  conducting 
her  through  that  flat  region,  in  which  are  nothing  but  flax- 
crops  and  mile-stones  ;  and  ever  and  anon  some  jolt  or  unex¬ 
pected  noise  fatally  disturbs  her  ;  and  looking  out,  it  is  no 
waterfall  or  mountain  chasm,  but  only  the  villanous  highway, 
and  squalls  of  October  wind.  To  speak  without  figure,  Dr. 
Milliner  does  seem  to  us  a  singularly  oppressive  writer ; 
and  perhaps  for  this  reason  :  that  he  hovers  too  near  the 
verge  of  good  writing  ;  ever  tempting  us  with  some  hope  that 
here  is  a  touch  of  Poetry  ;  and  ever  disappointing  us  with  a 
touch  of  pure  Prose.  A  stately  sentiment  comes  tramping 
forth  with  a  clank  that  sounds  poetic  and  heroic  ;  we  start 
in  breathless  expectation,  waiting  to  reverence  the  heavenly 
guest ;  and,  alas,  he  proves  to  be  but  an  old  stager  dressed  in 
new  buckram,  a  stager  well  known  to  us,  nay  often  a  stager 
that  has  already  been  drummed  out  of  most  well-regulated 
communities.  So  is  it  ever  with  Dr.  Milliner  :  no  feeling  can 
be  traced  much  deeper  in  him  than  the  tongue  ;  or  perhaps 
when  we  search  more  strictly,  instead  of  an  ideal  of  beauty, 
we  shall  find  some  vague  aim  after  strength,  or  in  defect  of 
this,  after  mere  size.  And  yet  how  cunningly  he  manages 
the  counterfeit !  A  most  plausible,  fair-spoken,  close-shaven 
man  :  a  man  whom  you  must  not,  for  decency ’s-sake,  throw 
out  of  the  window  ;  and  yet  you  feel  that  being  palpably  a 
Turk  in  grain,  his  intents  are  wicked  and  not  charitable  ! 

But  the  grand  question  with  regard  to  Milliner,  as  with 
regard  to  those  other  Playwrights,  is  :  Where  lies  his  pecul¬ 
iar  sleight-of-hand  in  this  craft  ?  Let  us  endeavour,  then,  to 
find  out  his  secret, — his  recipe  for  play-making ;  and  commu¬ 
nicate  the  same  for  behoof  of  the  British  nation.  Milliner’s 
recipe  is  no  mysterious  one  ;  floats,  indeed,  on  the  very  sur¬ 
face  ;  might  even  be  taught,  one  would  suppose,  on  a  few 
trials,  to  the  humblest  capacity.  Our  readers  may  perhaps 
recollect  Zacharias  Werner,  and  some  short  allusion,  in  our 
First  Number,  to  a  highly  terrific  piece  of  his,  entitled  The 
Twenty-fourth  of  February.  A  more  detailed  account  of  the 
matter  may  be  found  in  Madame  cle  Stacks  Allemagne  ;  in  the 


GERMAN  NLA  Y  WRIGHTS. 


73  ■ 

€  -  IL,  yS  '  / 

Chapter  which  treats  of  that  infatuated  Zacharias  generally. 
It  is  a  story  of  a  Swiss  peasant  and  bankrupt,  called  Kurt 
Kuruh,  if  we  mistake  not ;  and  of  his  wife,  and  a  rich  travel¬ 
ling  stranger  lodged  with  them  ;  which  latter  is,  in  the  night 
of  the  Twenty-fourth  of  February,  wilfully  and  feloniously 
murdered  by  the  two  former  ;  and  proves  himself,  in  the  act 
of  dying,  to  be  their  only  son,  who  had  returned  home  to 
make  them  all  comfortable,  could  they  only  have  had  a  little 
more  patience.  But  the  foul  deed  is  already  accomplished, 
with  a  rusty  knife  or  scythe  ;  and  nothing  of  course  remains 
but  for  the  whole  batch  to  go  to  perdition.  For  it  was  writ¬ 
ten,  as  the  Arabs  say,  c  on  the  iron  leaf :  ’  these  Ivuruhs  are 
doomed  men;  old  Kuruh,  the  grandfather,  had  committed 
some  sin  or  other  ;  for  which,  like  the  sons  of  Atreus,  his  de¬ 
scendants  are  ‘  prosecuted  with  the  utmost  rigour  :  ’  nay,  so 
punctilious  is  Destiny,  that  this  very  Twenty-fourth  of  Febru¬ 
ary,  the  day  w7hen  that  old  sin  was  enacted,  is  still  a  fatal  day 
with  the  family  ;  and  this  very  knife  or  scythe,  the  criminal 
tool  on  that  former  occasion,  is  ever  the  instrument  of  new 
crime  and  punishment ;  the  Kuruhs,  during  all  that  half  cent¬ 
ury,  never  having  carried  it  to  the  smithy  to  make  hobnails ; 
but  kept  it  hanging  on  a  peg,  most  injudiciously  we  think, 
almost  as  a  <sort  of  bait  and  bonus  to  Satan,  a  ready-made  ful¬ 
crum  for  whatever  machinery  he  might  bring  to  bear  against 
them.  This  is  the  tragic  lesson  taught  in  Werner’s  Twenty  - 
fourth  of  February  ;  and,  as  the  whole  dramatis  personae  are 
either  stuck  through  with  old  iron,  or  hanged  in  hemp,  it  is 
surely  taught  with  some  considerable  emphasis. 

Werner’s  Play  was  brought  out  at  Weimar,  in  1809  ;  under 
the  direction  or  permission,  as  he  brags,  of  the  great  Goethe 
himself ;  and  seems  to  have  produced  no  faint  impression 
on  a  discerning  public.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  piece  nowise  des¬ 
titute  of  substance  and  a  certain  coarse  vigour  ;  and  if  any 
one  has  so  obstinate  a  heart  that  he  must  absolutely  stand  in 
a  slaughter-house,  or  within  wind  of  the  gallows  before  tears 
will  ccme,  it  may  have  a  very  comfortable  effect  on  him.  One 
S}rmptom  of  merit  it  must  be  admitted  to  exhibit, — an  adap¬ 
tation  to  the  general  taste  ;  for  the  small  fibre  of  originality, 


n 


GERMAN  PL  A  Y  WRIGHTS. 


which  exists  here,  has  already  shot  forth  into  a  whole  wood 
of  imitations.  We  understand  that  the  Fate-line  is  now  quite 
an  established  branch  of  dramatic  business  in  Germany  ;  they 
have  their  Fate-dramatists,  just  as  we  have  our  gingham-wea¬ 
vers  and  inkle-weavers.  Of  this  Fate-manufacture  we  have 
already  seen  one  sample  in  Grillparzer’s  Aim frau :  but  by  far 
the  most  extensive  Fate-manufacturer,  the  head  and  prince 
of  all  Fate-dramatists,  is  the  Doctor  Milliner  at  present  under 
consideration.  Milliner  deals  in  Fate,  and  Fate  only  ;  it  is 
the  basis  and  staple  of  his  whole  tragedy-goods  ;  cut  off  this 
one  principle,  you  annihilate  his  raw  material,  and  he  can 
manufacture  no  more. 

Milliner  acknowledges  his  obligations  to  Werner ;  but,  we 
think,  not  half  warmly  enough.  Werner  was  in  fact  the  mak¬ 
ing  of  him  ;  great  as  he  has  now  become,  our  Doctor  is  noth¬ 
ing  but  a  mere  mistletoe  growing  from  that  poor  oak,  itself 
already  half  dead  ;  had  there  been  no  Twenty-fourth  of  Feb¬ 
ruary,  there  were  then  no  Twenty-ninth  of  Febr  uary,  no  Schuld, 
no  Albandserinn,  most  probably  no  Konig  Yngurd.  For  the 
reader  is  to  understand  that  Dr.  Milliner,  already  a  middle- 
aged,  and  as  yet  a  perfectly  undramatic  man,  began  business 
with  a  direct  copy  of  this  Twenty-fourth ;  a  thing  proceeding 
by  Destiny,  and  ending  in  murder,  by  a  knife  or  scythe,  as  in 
the  Kuruh  case  ;  with  one  improvement,  indeed,  that  there 
was  a  grinding-stone  introduced  into  the  scene,  and  the  spec¬ 
tator  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  knife  previously  whetted. 
The  Author  too  was  honest  enough  publicly  to  admit  his  imi¬ 
tation  ;  for  he  named  this  Play  the  Twenty-ninth  of  February  ; 
and,  in  his  Preface,  gave  thanks,  though  somewhat  reluctantly, 
to  Werner,  as  to  his  master  and  originator.  For  some  in¬ 
scrutable  reason,  this  Twenty-ninth  was  not  sent  to  the  green¬ 
grocer,  but  became  popular  :  there  was  even  the  weakest  of 
parodies  written  on  it,  entitled  Eumenides  Duster  (Eumenides 
Gloomy),  which  Miillner  has  reprinted  ;  there  was  likewise  c  a 
wish  expressed  ’  that  the  termination  might  be  made  jo57ous, 
not  grievous ;  with  which  wish  also  the  indefatigable  wright 
has  complied  ;  and  so,  for  the  benefit  of  weak  nerves,  we  have 
the  Wahn  (Delusion),  which  still  ends  in  tears, , but  glad  ones. 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


75 


In  short,  our  Doctor  has  a  peculiar  merit  with  this  Twenty  - 
ninth  of  his  ;  for  who  but  he  could  have  cut  a  second  and  a 
third  face  on  the  same  cherrystone,  said  cherrystone  having- 
first  to  be  borrowed,  or  indeed  half-stolen  ? 

At  this  point,  however,  Dr.  Miillner  apparently  began  to  set 
up  for  himself  ;  and  ever  henceforth  he  endeavours  to  persuade 
his  own  mind  and  ours  that  his  debt  to  Werner  terminates 
here.  Nevertheless  clear  it  is  that  fresh  debt  was  every  day 
contracting.  For  had  not  this  one  Werne®ean  idea  taken  com¬ 
plete  hold  of  the  Doctor’s  mind  ;  so  that  he  was  quite  pos¬ 
sessed  with  it,  had,  we  might  say,  no  other  tragic  idea  what¬ 
ever  ?  That  a  man,  on  a  certain  day  of  the  month,  shall  fall 
into  crime  ;  for  which  an  invisible  Fate  shall  silently  pursue 
him  ;  punishing  the  transgression,  most  probably  on  the  same 
day  of  the  month,  annually  (unless,  as  in  the  Twenty-ninth,  it  be 
leap-year,  and  Fate  in  this  may  be,  to  a  certain  extent,  bilked)  ; 
and  never  resting  till  the  poor  wight  himself,  and  perhaps  his 
last  descendant,  shall  be  swept  away  with  the  besom  of  de¬ 
struction  :  such,  more  or  less  disguised,  frequently  without 
any  disguise,  is  the  tragic  essence,  the  vital  principle,  natural 
or  galvanic  we  are  not  deciding,  of  all  Dr.  Milliner’s  Dramas. 
Thus,  in  that  everlasting  Twenty -ninth  of  February,  we  have 
the  principle  in  its  naked  state  :  some  old  Woodcutter  or 
Forester  has  fallen  into  deadly  sin  with  his  wife’s  sister,  long 
ago,  on  that  intercalary  day  ;  and  so  his  whole  progeny  must, 
wittingly  or  unwittingly,  proceed  in  incest  and  murder  ;  the 
day  of  the  catastrophe  regularly  occurring,  every  four  years, 
on  the  same  Twenty-ninth  ;  till  happily  the  whole  are  mur¬ 
dered,  and  there  is  an  end.  So  likewise  in  the  Schulcl  (Guilt), 
a  much  more  ambitious  performance,  we  have  exactly  the 
same  doctrine  of  an  anniversary  ;  and  the  interest  once  more 
turns  on  that  delicate  business  of  murder  and  incest.  In  the 
Albandsennn  (Fair  Albanese),  again,  which  may  have  the  credit, 
such  as  it  is,  of  being  Mullner ’s  best  Play,  we  find  the  Fate- 
theory  a  little  coloured  ;  as  if  the  drug  had  begun  to  disgust, 
and  the  Doctor  would  hide  it  in  a  spoonful  of  syrup  :  it  is  a 
dying  man’s  curse  that  operates  on  the  criminal  ;  which  curse, 
being  strengthened  by  a  sin  of  very  old  standing  in  the  family 


76 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


of  the  cursee,  takes  singular  effect ;  the  parties  only  weather¬ 
ing  parricide,  fratricide,  and  the  old  story  of  incest,  by  two 
self-banisliments,  and  two  very  decisive  self-murders.  Nay,  it 
seems  as  if  our  Doctor  positively  could  not  act  at  all  without 
this  Fate-panacea  :  in  Konig  Yngurd ,  we  might  almost  think 
that  he  had  made  such  an  attempt,  and  found  that  it  would 
not  do.  This  Konig  Yngurd,  an  imaginary  Peasant-King  of 
Norway,  is  meant,  as  we  are  kindly  informed,  to  present  us 
with  some  adumbratiou  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  ;  and  truly, 
for  the  two  or  three  first  Acts,  he  goes  along  with  no  small  gal¬ 
lantry,  in  what  drill-sergeants  call  a  dashing  or  swashing  style  ; 
a  very  virtuous  kind  of  man,  and  as  bold  as  Buy  Diaz  or  the 
Warwick  Mastiff :  when  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a  battle, 
far  on  in  the  Play,  he  is  seized  with  some  caprice,  or  whimsi¬ 
cal  qualm  ;  retires  to  a  solitary  place,  among  rocks,  and  there 
in  a  most  gratuitous  manner,  delivers  himself  over,  viva  voce, 
to  the  Devil  ;  who  indeed  does  not  appear  personally  to  take 
seisin  of  him,  but  yet,  as  afterwards  comes  to  light,  has  with 
great  readiness  accepted  the  gift.  For  now  Yngurd  grows 
dreadfully  sulky  and  wicked,  does  little  henceforth  but  bully 
men  and  kill  them  ;  till  at  length,  the  measure  of  his  iniquities 
being  full,  he  himself  is  bullied  and  killed  ;  and  the  Author, 
carried  through  by  this  his  sovereign  tragic  elixir,  contrary  to 
expectation,  terminates  his  piece  with  reasonable  comfort. 

This,  then,  is  Dr.  Milliner’s  dramatic  mystery  ;  this  is  the 
one  patent  hook  by  which  he  would  hang  his  clay  tragedies 
on  the  upper  spiritual  world  ;  and  so  establish  for  himself  a 
free  communication,  almost  as  if  by  block-and-tackle,  between 
the  visible  Prose  Earth  and  the  invisible  Poetic  Heaven.  The 
greater  or  less  merit  of  this  his  invention,  or  rather  improve¬ 
ment,  for  Werner  is  the  real  patentee,  has  given  rise,  we  un¬ 
derstand,  to  extensive  argument.  The  small  deer  of  criticism 
seem  to  be  much  divided  in  opinion  on  this  point ;  and  the 
higher  orders,  as  we  have  stated,  declining  to  throw  any  light 
whatever  on  it,  the  subject  is  still  mooting  with  great  anima¬ 
tion.  For  our  own  share,  we  confess  that  we  incline  to  rank 
it,  as  a  recipe  for  dramatic  tears,  a  shade  higher  than  the 
Page’s  split  onion  in  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew.  Craftily  hid 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


77 


in  tlie  handkerchief,  this  onion  was  sufficient  for  the  decep¬ 
tion  of  Christopher  Sly  ;  in  that  way  attaining  its  object ; 
which  also  the  Fate -invention  seems  to  have  done  with  the 
Christopher  Slys  of  Germany,  and  these  not  one  but  many, 
and  therefore  somewhat  harder  to  deceive.  To  this  onion- 
superiority  we  think  Dr.  M.  is  fairly  entitled ;  and  with  this 
it  were,  perhaps,  good  for  him  that  he  remained  content. 

Dr.  Milliner’s  Fate-sclieme  has  been  attacked  by  certain  of 
his  traducers  on  the  score  of  its  hostility  to  the  Christian  re¬ 
ligion.  Languishing  indeed  should  we  reckon  the  condition 
of  the  Christian  religion  to  be,  could  Dr.  Milliner’s  play-join¬ 
ery  produce  any  perceptihle  effect  on  it.  Nevertheless,  we 
may  remark,  since  the  matter  is  in  hand,  that  this  business  of 
Fate  does  seem  to  us  nowise  a  Christian  doctrine  ;  not  even 
a  Mahometan  or  Heathen  one.  The  Fate  of  the  Greeks,  though 
a  false,  was  a  lofty  hypothesis,  and  harmonised  sufficiently 
with  the  whole  sensual  and  material  structure  of  their  the¬ 
ology  :  a  ground  of  deepest  black,  on  which  that  gorgeous 
phantasmagoria  was  fitly  enough  painted.  Besides,  with 
them  the  avenging  Power  d\tfelt,  at  least  in  its  visible  mani¬ 
festations,  among  the  high  places  of  the  earth,  visiting  only 
kingly  houses,  and  world  criminals,  from  whom  it  might  be 
supposed  the  world,  but  for  such  miraculous  interferences, 
could  have  exacted  no  vengeance,  or  found  no  protection  and 
purification.  Never,  that  we  recollect  of,  did  the  Erinnyes 
become  mere  sheriff’s-officers,  and  Fate  a  justice  of  the  peace, 
haling  poor  drudges  to  the  tread-mill  for  robbery  of  hen¬ 
roosts,  or  scattering  the  earth  with  steel-traps  to  keep  down 
poaching.  And  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  revealed 
Providence  of  these  days ;  that  Power  whose  path  is  emphati¬ 
cally  through  the  great  deep  ;  his  doings  and  plans  manifested, 
in  completeness,  not  by  the  year  or  by  the  century,  on  indi¬ 
viduals  or  on  nations,  but  stretching  through  Eternity,  and 
over  the  infinitude  which  he  rules  and  sustains  ? 

But  there  needs  no  recourse  to  theological  arguments  for 
judging  this  Fate-tenet  of  Dr.  Milliner’s.  Its  value,  as  a 
dramatic  principle,  may  be  estimated,  it  seems  to  us,  by  this 
one  consideration  :  that  in  these  days  no  person  of  either 


78 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


sex  in  the  slightest  degree  believes  it  ;  that  Dr.  Milliner  him¬ 
self  does  not  believe  it.  We  are  not  contending  that  fiction 
should  become  fact,  or  that  no  dramatic  incident  is  genuine, 
unless  it  could  be  sworn  to  before  a  jury  ;  but  simply  that 
fiction  should  not  be  falsehood  and  delirium.  How  shall  any 
one,  in  the  drama,  or  in  poetry  of  any  sort,  present  a  consist¬ 
ent  philosophy  of  life,  which  is  the  soul  and  ultimate  essence 
of  all  poetry,  if  he  and  every  mortal  know  that  the  whole 
moral  basis  of  his  ideal  world  is  a  lie  ?  And  is  it  other  than 
a  lie  that  man’s  life  is,  was  or  could  be,  grounded  on  this  pet¬ 
tifogging  principle  of  a  Fate  that  pursues  woodcutters  and 
cowherds  with  miraculous  visitations,  on  stated  days  of  the 
month?  Can  we,  with  any  profit,  hold  the  mirror  up  to  Nat¬ 
ure  in  this  wise  ?  When  our  mirror  is  no  mirror,  but  only 
as  it  were  a  nursery  saucepan,  and  that  long  since  grown 
rusty  ? 

We  might  add,  were  it  of  auy  moment  in  this  case,  that 
we  reckon  Dr.  Milliner’s  tragic  knack  altogether  insufficient 
for  a  still  more  comprehensive  reason ;  simply  for  the  reason 
that  it  is  a  knack,  a  recipe,  of  secret  of  the  craft,  which, 
could  it  be  never  so  excellent,  must  by  repeated  use  degen¬ 
erate  into  a  mannerism,  and  therefore  into  a  nuisance.  But 
herein  lies  the  difference  between  creation  and  manufacture  : 
the  latter  has  its  manipulations,  its  secret  processes,  which 
can  be  learned  by  apprenticeship,  the  former  has  not.  For 
in  poetry  we  have  heard  of  no  secret  possessing  the  smallest 
effectual  virtue,  except  this  one  general  secret :  that  the  poet 
be  a  man  of  a  purer,  higher,  richer  nature  than  other  men  ; 
which  higher  nature  shall  itself,  after  earnest  inquiry,  have 
taught  him  the  proper  form  for  embodying  its  inspirations, 
as  indeed  the  imperishable  beauty  of  these  will  shine,  with 
more  or  less  distinctness,  through  any  form  whatever. 

Had  Dr.  Milliner  any  visible  pretension  to  this  last  great 
secret,  it  might  be  a  duty  to  dwell  longer  and  more  gravely 
on  his  minor  ones,  however  false  and  poor.  As  he  has  no 
such  pretension,  it  appears  to  us  that  for  the  present  we  may 
take  our  leave.  To  give  any  farther  analysis  of  his  individ¬ 
ual  dramas  would  be  an  easy  task,  but  a  stupid  and  thankless 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


79 


one.  A  Harrison’s  watch,  though  this  too  is  but  an  earthly 
machine,  may  be  taken  asunder  with  some  prospect  of  scien¬ 
tific  advantage  ;  but  who  would  spend  time  in  screwing  and 
unscrewing  the  mechanism  of  ten  pepper-mills?  Neither 
shall  we  offer  any  extract,  as  a  specimen  of  the  diction  and 
sentiment  that  reigns  in  these  dramas.  We  have  said  already 
that  it  is  fair,  well-ordered  stage  sentiment  this  of  his ;  that 
the  diction  too  is  good,  well-scanned,  grammatical  diction  ; 
no  fault  to  be  found  with  either,  except  that  they  pretend  to 
be  poetry,  and  are  throughout  the  most  unadulterated  prose. 
To  exhibit  this  fact  in  extracts  would  be  a  vain  undertaking. 
Not  the  few  sprigs  of  heath,  but  the  thousand  acres  of  it, 
characterise  the  wilderness.  Let  any  one  who  covets  a  trim 
heath-nosegay,  clutch  at  random  into  Milliner’s  Seven  Vol¬ 
umes  :  for  ourselves,  we  would  not  deal  farther  in  that  ar¬ 
ticle. 

Besides  his  dramatic  labours,  Dr.  Milliner  is  known  to  the 
public  as  a  journalist.  Lor  some  considerable  time,  he  has 
edited  a  Literary  Newspaper  of  his  own  originating,  the 
Mitternacht-Blatt  (Midnight  Paper)  ;  stray  leaves  of  which  wre 
occasionally  look  into.  In  this  last  capacity,  we  are  happy 
to  observe,  he  shows  to  much  more  advantage  :  indeed,  the 
journalistic  office  seems  quite  natural  to  him  ;  and  would  he 
take  any  advice  from  us,  which  he  will  not,  here  wnre  the 
arena  in  which,  and  not  in  the  Fate-drama,  he  would  exclu¬ 
sively  continue  to  fence,  for  his  bread  or  glory.  He  is  not 
without  a  vein  of  small  wit ;  a  certain  degree  of  drollery 
there  is,  of  grinning  half-risible,  half-impudent ;  he  has  a  / 
fair  hand  at  the  feebler  sort  of  lampoon  ;  the  German  Joe 
Millers  also  seem  familiar  to  him,  and  his  skill  in  the  riddle 
is  respectable  :  so  that  altogether,  as  wre  said,  he  makes  a 
superior  figure  in  this  line,  which  indeed  is  but  despicably 
managed  in  Germany  ;  and  his  Mitternacht-Blatt  is,  by  sev¬ 
eral  degrees,  the  most  readable  paper  of  its  kind  we  meet 
with  in  that  country.  Not  that  we,  in  the  abstract,  much 
admire  Dr.  Milliner’s  newspaper  procedure  ;  his  style  is 
merely  the  common  tavern-style,  familiar  enough  in  our  own 
periodical  literature  ;  riotous,  blustering,  with  some  tincture 


80 


GERMAN  PL  A  YW RIG  UTS. 


of  blackguardism  ;  a  lialf-dislionest  style,  and  smells  consid¬ 
erably  of  tobacco  and  spirituous  liquor.  Neither  do  we  find 
that  there  is  the  smallest  fraction  of  valuable  knowledge  or 
opinion  communicated  in  the  Midnight  Paper  ;  indeed,  ex¬ 
cept  it  be  the  knowledge  and  opinion  that  Dr.  Milliner  is  a 
great  dramatist,  and  that  all  who  presume  to  think  otherwise 
are  insufficient  members  of  society,  we  cannot  charge  our 
memory  with  having  gathered  any  knowledge  from  it  what¬ 
ever.  It  may  be  too,  that  Dr.  Mullner  is  not  perfectly  origi¬ 
nal  in  his  journalistic  manner  :  we  have  sometimes  felt  as  if 
his  light  were,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  borrowed  one  ;  a  rush- 
light  kindled  at  the  great  pitch  link  of  our  own  Blackwood’s 
Magazine.  But  on  this  point  we  cannot  take  upon  us  to 
decide. 

One  of  Mil  liner’s  regular  journalistic  articles  is  the  Kriegs- 
zeitung,  or  'War-intelligence,  of  all  the  paper-battles,  feuds, 
defiances  and  private  assassinations,  chiefly  dramatic,  which 
occur  in  the  more  distracted  portion  of  the  German  Literary 
Kepublic.  This  Kriegszeitung  Dr.  Mullner  evidently  writes 
with  great  gusto,  in  a  lively  braggadocio  manner,  especially 
when  touching  on  his  own  exploits ;  yet  to  us  it  is  far  the 
most  melancholy  part  of  the  Mitternacht-Blat.t.  Alas,  this  is 
not  what  we  search  for  in  a  German  newspaper  ;  how  ‘  Herr 
Sapphir,’  or  Herr  Carbuncle,  or  so  many  other  Herren 
Dousterswivel,  are  all  busily  molesting  one  another !  We 
ourselves  are  pacific  men  ;  make  a  point  Go  shun  discrepant 
circles  rather  than  seek  them  :  ’  and  how  sad  is  it  to  hear  of 
so  many  illustrious-obscure  persons  living  in  foreign  parts, 
and  hear  only,  what  was  well  known  without  hearing,  that 
they  also  are  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  Satan  !  For  what  is 
the  bone  that  these  Journalists,  in  Berlin  and  elsewhere,  are 
worrying  over  ;  what  is  the  ultimate  purpose  of  all  this  bark¬ 
ing  and  snarling  ?  Sheer  love  of  fight,  you  would  say ; 
simply  to  make  one  another’s  life  a  little  bitterer  ;  .as  if  Fate 
had  not  been  cross  enough  to  the  happiest  of  them.  Were 
there  any  perceptible  subject  of  dispute,  any  doctrine  to 
advocate,  even  a  false  one,  it  would  be  something  ;  but  so 
far  as  we  can  discover,  whether  from  Sapphire  and  Com- 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


81 


pany,  or  the  ‘  Nabob  of  Weissenfels  ’  (our  own  worthy  Doc¬ 
tor),  there  is  none.  And  is  this  their  appointed  function  ? 
Are  Editors  scattered  over  the  country,  and  supplied  with 
victuals  and  fuel,  purely  to  bite  one  another  ?  Certainly  not. 
But  these  Journalists,  we  think,  are  like  the  Academician’s 
colony  of  spiders.  This  French  virtuoso  had  found  that 
cobwebs  were  worth  something,  that  they  could  even  be 
woven  into  silk  stockings  ;  whereupon  he  exhibits  a  very 
handsome  pair  of  cobweb  hose  to  the  Academy,  is  encouraged 
to  proceed  with  the  manufacture  ;  and  so  collects  some  half¬ 
bushel  of  spiders,  and  puts  them  down  in  a  spacious  loft,  with 
every  convenience  for  making  silk.  But  will  the  vicious 
creatures  spin  a  thread  ?  In  place  of  it,  they  take  to  fighting 
with  their  whole  vigour,  in  contempt  of  the  poor  Academician’s 
utmost  exertions  to  part  them  ;  and  end  not,  till  there  is 
simply  one  spider  left  living,  and  not  a  shred  of  cobweb 
woven,  or  henceforth  to  be  expected  !  Could  the  weavers  of 
paragraphs,  like  these  of  the  cobweb,  fairly  exterminate  and 
silence  one  another,  it  would  perhaps  be  a  little  more  sup¬ 
portable.  But  an  Editor  is  made  of  sterner  stuff.  In  general 
cases,  indeed,  when  the  brains  are  out,  the  man  will  die  :  but 
it  is  a  well-known  fact  in  Journalistics,  that  a  man  may  not 
only  live,  but  support  wife  and  children  by  his  labours,  in 
this  line,  years  after  the  brain  (if  there  ever  was  any)  has 
been  completely  abstracted,  or  reduced  by  time  and  hard 
usage  into  a  state  of  dry  powder.  What  then  is  to  be  done? 
Is  there  no  end  to  this  brawling ;  and  will  the  unprofitable 
noise  endure  forever?  By  way  of  palliative,  we  have  some¬ 
times  imagined  that  a  Congress  of  all  German  Editors  might 
be  appointed,  by  proclamation,  in  some  central  spot,  say  the 
Niirnberg  Market-place,  if  it  would  hold  them  all :  here  we 
would  humbly  suggest  that  the  whole  Journalistik  might  as¬ 
semble  on  a  given  day,  and  under  the  eye  of  proper  marshals, 
sufficiently  and . satisfactorily  horsewhip  one  another,  simulta¬ 
neously,  each  his  neighbour,  till  the  very  toughest  had  enough 
both  of  whipping  and  of  being  whipped.  In  this  way,  it  seems 
probable,  little  or  no  injustice  would  be  done  ;  and  each 
Journalist,  cleared  of  gall  for  several  months,  might  return 


82 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


home  in  a  more  composed  frame  of  mind,  and  betake  himself 
with  new  alacrity  to  the  real  duties  of  his  office. 

But,  enough  !  enough  !  The  humour  of  these  men  may  be 
infectious  :  it  is  not  good  for  us  to  be  here.  Wandering  over 
the  Elysian  Fields  of  German  Literature,  not  watching  the 
gloomy  discords  of  its  Tartarus,  is  what  we  wish  to  be  em¬ 
ployed  in.  Let  the  iron  gate  again  close,  and  shut-in  the 
pallid  kingdoms  from  view :  we  gladly  revisit  the  upper  air. 
Not  in  despite  towards  the  German  nation,  which  we  love 
honestly,  have  wTe  spoken  thus  of  these  its  Playwrights  and 
Journalists.  Alas,  when  we  look  around  us  at  home,  we  feel 
too  well  that  the  Germans  might  say  to  us  :  Neighbour, 
sweep  thy  own  floor  !  Neither  is  it  with  any  hope  of  better¬ 
ing  the  existence  of  these  three  individual  Poetasters,  still  less 
with  the  smallest  shadow  of  wish  to  make  it  more  miserable, 
that  we  have  spoken.  After  all,  there  must  be  Playwrights, 
as  we  have  said ;  and  these  are  among  the  best  of  the  class. 
So  long  as  it  pleases  them  to  manufacture  in  this  line,  and 
any  body  of  German  Thebans  to  pay  them  in  groschen  or 
plaudits  for  their  ware,  let  both  parties  persist  in  so  doing, 
and  fair  befall  them  !  But  the  duty  of  Foreign  Beviewers  is 
of  a  twofold  sort.  For  not  only  are  we  stationed  on  the  coast 
of  the  country,  as  watchers  and  spials,  to  report  whatsoever 
remarkable  thing  becomes  visible  in  the  distance  ;  but  we 
stand  there  also  as  a  sort  of  Tide-waiters  and  Preventive-ser¬ 
vice-men,  to  contend  with  our  utmost  vigour,  that  no  improp¬ 
er  article  be  landed.  These  offices,  it  would  seem,  as  in  the 
material  world,  so  also  in  the  literary  and  spiritual,  usually 
fall  to  the  lot  of  aged,  invalided,  impoverished,  or  otherwise 
decayed  persons  ;  but  that  is  little  to  the  matter.  As  true 
British  subjects,  with  ready  will,  though  it  may  be  'with  our 
last  strength,  we  are  here  to  discharge  that  double  duty. 
Movements,  wTe  observe,  are  making  along  the  beach,  and 
signals  out  seawards,  as  if  these  Klingemanns  and  Mullners 
were’-to  be  landed  on  our  soil :  but  through  the  strength  of 
heaven  this  shall  not  be  done,  till  the  *  most  thinking  people’ 
know  what  it  is  that  is  landing.  For  the  rest,  if  any  one  wishes 
to  import  that  sort  of  produce,  and  finds  it  nourishing  for  his 


GERMAN  PLAYWRIGHTS. 


83 


inward  man,  let  him  do  so  and  welcome.  Only  let  him  un¬ 
derstand  that  it  is  not  German  Literature  he  is  swallowing, 
but  the  froth  and  scum  of  German  Literature  ;  which  scum, 
if  he  will  only  wait,  we  can  farther  promise  him  that  he  may, 
ere  long,  enjoy  in  the  new,  and  perhaps  cheaper,  form  of 
sediment.  And  so  let  every  one  be  active  for  himself  : 

JSfoch  ist  es  Tag ,  da  riXhre  sick  der  Mann  ; 

Hie  Nacht  tritt  ein ,  wo  niemand  wirken  kann. 


APPENDIX 


SUMMARY  OF  APPENDIX. 


I. 

PREFACE  AND  INTRODUCTIONS  TO  GERMAN  ROMANCE. 

Uncounted  number  and  variety  of  German  Novel  writers :  Difficulty 
of  making  an  adequate  selection :  Chief  modes  of  German  Novelwrit¬ 
ing.  National  peculiarities  and  cosmopolitan  vacuity.  The  light  of  a 
small  taper  may  be  useful  in  total  darkness.  Difficulties  of  German 
little  more  than  a  bugbear :  Its  general  diffusion  among  us  not  far  dis¬ 
tant.  (p.  91). 

Mus^eus. 

Born  at  Jena.  A  boy  of  quick  talents*  and  kind  lively  temper: 
Adopted  and  liberally  educated  by  his  uncle.  Removes  to  Eisenach. 
Intended  for  the  Church  :  Not  acceptable  as  a  pastor.  His  residence  at 
Eisenach  not  unprofitable  :  In  his  twenty-fifth  year  he  became  an  au¬ 
thor  ;  provoked  thereto  by  the  unbounded  acceptance  of  our  English 
Richardson  :  Success  of  his  German  Grandison ,  published  anonymously. 
He  longed  much  less  for  a  literary  existence,  than  for  a  civic  one  :  Be¬ 
came  Tutor  in  the  Court  of  Weimar  ;  married  ;  increased  his  income  by 
giving  private  lessons  ;  and  grew  and  waxed  strong  in  contented  obscu¬ 
rity.  After  an  interval  of  nineteen  years  his  iconoclastic  faculty  was  again 
called  forth :  His  Physiognomical  Travels  :  The  applause  it  gained  instant 
and  general :  The  ground  was  now  broken,  and  he  was  not  long  in  dig¬ 
ging  deeper.  The  rude  traditionary  fragments  of  Germany  he  worked 
anew  into  shape  and  polish  :  He  spared  no  pains  in  collecting  his  ma¬ 
terials  ;  and  despised  no  source  of  intelligence,  however  mean.  His 
Volksmdhrchen ;  its  comic  humour,  levity  and  kind  sceptical  derision : 
Lovers  of  unadulterated  primeval  poetry  may  censure  Musa  us  ;  but  they 
join  with  the  public  at  large  in  reading  him.  His  subsequent  works  ; 
and  death,  (p.  89). — Without  much  effort  he  stood  aloof  from  every 
species  of  cant :  He  looked  upon  the  world  as  little  else  than  a  bound¬ 
less  Chase,  where  the  wise  were  to  recreate  themselves  with  the  hunt¬ 
ing  of  Follies  :  He  could  not  reverence  men  ;  but  with  all  their  faults 
he  loved  them.  He  kept  himself  unspotted  from  the  errors  of  his  time  ; 
a  merit  which  posterity  is  too  apt  to  underrate.  Peculiarities  of  his 
style  :  A  man  of  line  and  varied  talent,  but  scarcely  of  any  genius. 
(99). 


SUMMARY  OF  APPENDIX. 


87 


Friedrich  De  la  Motte  Fouque. 

Fouque’s  family  of  French  extraction  :  His  grandfather  in  high  fa¬ 
vour  with  Frederick  the  Great.  Little  known  of  Fouque’s  early  history. 
The  misfortunes  of  his  country  drove  him  into  retirement  :  Introduced 
by  Schlegel  to  the  study  of  Spanish  poetry  :  An  ideal  of  Christian 
knighthood  continually  hovered  round  his  fancy.  His  literary  perform¬ 
ances  all  of  a  chivalry  cast.  (p.  102). — His  wife  a  virtuous  and  gifted 
woman  of  kindred  genius.  In  the  contest  of  Prussia  with  Napoleon  he 
evinced  in  actual  battle  the  devout  and  fervid  gallantry  which  he  had 
so  often  previously  delineated  in  his  writings.  A  pure  sensitive  heart 
deeply  reverent  of  Truth  and  Beauty  and  Heroic  Virtue  ;  and  a  deli¬ 
cate  hand  in  picturing  forth  some  few  forms  of  these  high  qualities : 
To  wed  that  old  sentiment  to  modern  thoughts ,  was  a  task  lie  could  not 
attempt.  In  mental  structure,  Fouque  seems  the  converse  of  Musaus. 
Lightness  and  simplicity  the  chief  characteristics  of  his  style :  The 
little  Tale  of  A slaugFs  Knight  some  tolerable  emblem  of  his  peculiar 
qualities.  (104). 

Ludwig  Tieck. 

Born  at  Berlin :  His  private  life  little  known.  His  literary  life  he 
began  in  his  twenty-second  year  :  Immature  products  of  a  strong  and 
fervid  genius  :  Active  and  positive  Goodness  soon  displaced  mere  barren 
and  tormenting  negatives.  His  Volksmdhrchen  of  the  most  varied  char¬ 
acter,  teeming  with  wondrous  shapes  full  of  meaning  ;  true  modern 
denizens  of  the  old  Fairyland.  By  this  work  he  was  first  introduced  to 
the  notice  of  his  countrymen  :  His  Der  gestiefelte  Eater,  a  grotesque  and 
hearty  satire  on  the  existing  aspect  of  literature.  Numerous  parodies 
and  lighter  pieces :  Letters  on  Shakspeare.  Marriage.  Becomes  ac¬ 
quainted.  with  the  two  Schlegels,  Novalis  and  Wackenroder  :  Literary 
cooperation:  New  School  of  Poetry,  (p.  107). — Tieck  s  frequent  change 
of  residence  :  Journey  into  Italy  :  Visit  to  London.  His  poetic  worth  : 
A  gay  Southern  fancy  lives  in  union  with  a  Northern  heart :  Chaste  sim¬ 
plicity,  both  in  conception  and  style  :  His  Blaubart ,  a  group  of  earnest 
figures,  painted  on  a  laughing  ground.  In  the  province  of  the  Mdhv- 
chen ,  or  popular  Traditionary  Tale,  he  reigns  without  a  rival.  (Ill)* 

E.  T.  W.  Hoffmann. 

A  life  full  of  error  and  perplexed  vicissitude.  Born  at  Konigsberg  : 
His  parents’  ill-assorted  union,  and  separation:  Remains  with  his 
mother.  An  uncle  takes  strenuous  charge  of  his  education  ;  but  can¬ 
not  take  stock  of  his  character.  Unwise  indulgence  more  hurtful  than 
leaden  constraint.  Days  of  bedlam  jubilee  :  Successful  cunning  :  Early 
friendship.  Schooling :  Music  and  painting  more  to  his  taste  than 
classical  studies  Steady  preparation  for  the  legal  profession.  His  leis¬ 
ure  occupied  with  music,  painting  and  unsuccessful  literary  efforts. 
Entanglements  of  a  love  affair.  Quits  Konigsberg,  and  proceeds  to 
Great  Glogau  in  Silesia.  Tedium  and  other  spiritual  maladies :  Leaves 
Silesia  for  Berlin  :  Appointed  Assessor  of  the  Court  of  Posen  :  Removes 
to  Poland.  He  was  now  director  of  his  own  actions  ;  and  unhappily 
did  not  direct  them  well :  Habits  of  irregularity  :  A  practical  joke,  and 
consequent  banishment  to  Plozk.  Marriage :  Domestic  peace  and  offi- 


88 


SUMMARY  OF  APPENDIX. 


cial  assiduity :  Promoted  from  Plozk  to  Warsaw.  The  Polish  capital  a 
vast  perpetual  masquerade  to  him.  Intimacy  with  Hitzig.  Project  of 
erecting  a  Musical  Institution  :  Hoffmann  among  the  paint-pots.  (p.  114). 
— The  project  prospered  beyond  expectation,  till  abruptly  terminated 
by  the  French  armies.  Asad  enough  outlook:  Visits  Berlin  in  quest 
of  employment.  Death  of  his  little  daughter  ;  his  wife  dangerously 
ill-:  At  last  obtains  an  engagement  with  the  managers  of  the  Bamberg 
stage.  Contradiction  and  disappointment.  Commences  writing  for  the 
Musicalische 'Zeitung.  Engagement  at  Dresden:  His  life  chequered  by 
harder  vicissitudes  than  ever.  The  revolution  of  Europe  restored  to 
him  his  former  rights  of  office  at  Berlin.  His  situation,  after  all  his 
buffetings,  was  now  a  happy  one  ;  and,  had  he  been  wise,  might  have 
continued  so.  His  sharp  temper,  transcendent  vanity  and  reckless  sat¬ 
ire,  disqualified  him  for  society  ;  yet  he  could  not  do  without  it :  The 
enjoyment  he  sought  was  only  to  be  found  at  the  tavern,  among  gay 
laughter-loving  topers.  His  official  duties  were  to  the  last  punctually 
and  irreproachably  performed  :  and  he  wrote  more  abundantly  than 
ever.  Meanwhile  his  health  at  length  gave  way  ;  and  he  died  a 
mournful  and  lingering  death  ;  writing,  or  dictating  to  an  amanuensis 
to  the  last.  (119. — Hoffmann’s  was  a  mind  for  which  proper  culture 
might  have  done  great  things.  He  loved  Art  with  a  deep,  but  scarcely 
with  a  pure  love  ;  not  as  the  fountain  of  Beauty,  but  as  the  fountain  of 
refined  Enjoyment.  His  head  was  forever  swarming  with  beautiful  or 
horrible  chimeras.  A  good  or  a  wise  man  we  must  not  call  him ;  but, 
among  the  ordinary  population  of  this  world,  to  note  him  with  the  mark 
of  reprobation  were  ungrateful  and  unjust.  His  genius  formed  the 
most  important  element  of  his  character,  and  participated  in  its  faults. 
As  a  child  of  his  time  and  his  country,  he  is  not  to  be  overlooked  in 
any  survey  of  German  Literature.  (123). 

Jean  Paul  Fiuediiich:  Riciitek. 

Richter  called  from  his  earthly  sojourn  since  the  commencement  of 
his  Translator’s  little  task.  The  materials  for  his  Biography  as  yet  in¬ 
accessible.  Birth  and  parentage :  Destined  for  the  clerical  profession  ; 
but  preferred  literature.  Finally  settled  in  Bayreuth  :  Domestic  peace 
and  happiness.  His  intellectual  labours  gained  him  the  esteem  and 
love  of  all  ranks  of  his  countrymen.  He  wrote  and  thought  in  a  track 
entirely  his  own.  Not  to  be  understood  by  a  mere  cursory  perusal. 
Singularity  not  always  affectation.  His  works  hard  to  understand  ;  but 
always  have  a  meaning,  and  often  a  true  and  deep  one.  (p.  126). — An 
impetuous,  colossal  spirit :  Among  his  gifts,  Imagination  and  Humour 
the  most  striking.  '  His  Humour  as  the  balm  which  a  generous  spirit 
pours  over  the  wounds  of  life.  His  favourite  characters  have  always  a 
dash  of  the  ridiculous  in  their  circumstances  or  their  compositions.  In 
the  treatment  of  heroes  proper  he  is  seldom  completely  happy.  Richter 
a  Western  Oriental.  Few  have  known  the  world  better,  or  taken  at 
once  a  clearer  and  a  kindlier  view  of  its  concerns.  Nature  in  all  her 
scenes  and  manifestations  he  loved  with  a  deep,  almost  passionate  love. 
His  belief  of  man’s  Immortality  the  sanctuary  and  solace  of  his  spirit. 
(129). — His  multifarious  and  seemingly  incongruous  Works.  To  many 
English  readers,  a  spirit  like  Richter’s  cannot  but  be  warmly  welcome. 


SUMMARY  OF  APPENDIX. 


89 


•  Goethe. 

Goethe’s  Autobiography.  Born  at  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  28th  Au¬ 
gust  1749.  Favourable  circumstances  of  his  family  :  Healthy,  genuine 
characters  of  his  parents.  Destined  for  the  profession  of  law,  could  but 
the  ambition  of  wealth  and  official  celebrity  have  adequately  inspired 
him.  Brightest  and  blackest  forecastings  struggling  within.  His  true 
destination  a  life  of  literature :  Gotz  ton  Berlichingen ,  and  Sorrows  of 
Werter.  Goethe’s  unlooked-for  popularity  far  from  affording  him  the 
satisfaction  he  craved  :  Anxiety,  doubt  of  any  sort,  can  only  be  removed 
by  Action,  (p.  136). — His  connexion  with  the  Court  of  Weimar.  Di¬ 
versity  of  his  studies  and  acquisitions  :  Literary  labours.  A  universal 
development  of  our  spiritual  nature,  more  precious  than  the  solace  of 
our  vanity.  German  Philistines.  Goethe’s  mental  faculties  ripened 
and  beautified  by  the  advance  of  age.  (139). — A  King  of  himself  and  of 
his  world.  He  has  inquired  fearlessly  ;  and,  while  fearlessly  denying  the 
false,  has  not  forgotten  to  search  out  and  admit  the  true  :  His  assiduous 
culture  proportionate  to  the  bountifulness  of  his  gifts  :  Composure  and 
cheerful  seriousness  seem  to  breathe  over  all  his  character.  This  also 
is  the  spirit  of  our  Shakspeare.  (144). — Goethe  not  a  German  Voltaire  : 
His  province  high  and  peculiar.  The  angels  and  demons  that  can  lay 
prostrate  our  hearts  in  the  nineteenth  century,  must  be  of  another  fash¬ 
ion  than  those  which  subdued  us  in  the  ninth.  In  Goethe  a  new 
world,  of  Earnestness  and  Sport,  begins  to  open  before  us.  Inconsis¬ 
tencies  and  shortcomings.  (146). —  Wilhelm  Meisters  Wanderjahre  lias 
less  relation  to  Fielding’s  Tom  Jones  than  to  Spenser’s  Faery  Queen. 
Goethe’s  reception  by  English  readers.  Our  own  literature  peopled  with 
kingly  intellects  and  hearts.  A  new  Poet,  and  Preacher  of  Truth  to  all 
men.  (149). 


H. 


FRACTIONS. 

Tragedy  of  the  Night-Moth. 

Waking  sympathies  between  Moths  and  Bookworms.  The  fount  of 
Life,  and  abyss  of  Danger :  A  tiny  tragedy.  Mystic  resemblances. 
What  gained  we,  little  moth  ?  (p.  151). 

Cui  Bono. 

What  is  Hope  ?  What  is  Life  ?  What  is  Man  ?  (p.  152). 

Four  Fables. 

1.  A  Radical  Reform  successfully  accomplished.  2.  March  of  Intel¬ 
lect,  and  general  scientific  achievements  of  the  utilitarian  Squirt.  3. 
Before  we  try  to  force  Providence  to  ‘  an  alternative,’  it  were  wise  to 
consider  what  the  alternative  might  be.  4.  The  richer  a  nature,  the 
harder  and  slower  its  development,  (p.  153). 


00 


SUMMARY  OF  APPENDIX. 


The  Sower’s  Song. 

Earth’s  bounteous  cooperation  with  the  labours  of  her  children,  (p.  154). 

Adieu. 

The  past  may  be  forever  present  ;  and  the  saddest  tears  must  fall 
away.  (p.  155;. 

The  Beetle. 

A  new  claimant  for  Public  Sympathy,  and  the  benefits  of  the  Poor- 
Laws.  The  ‘  chief  of  wonders  ’  common  to  the  lowliest  Beetle  and  the 
loftiest  Peer.  (156). 

To-day. 

Each  New  Day  a  new  glimpse  into  Eternity  ;  and  a  new  offer  of  eter¬ 
nal  possibilities,  (p.  157). 

Fortuna. 

The  weariest  heart  may  find  something  to  be  thankful  for  ;  and  only 
a  dastard  can  really  come  to  evil.  The  journey  of  life.  (p.  157). 


APPENDIX. 


i. 

PREFACE,  AND  INTRODUCTIONS,  TO  THE  BOOK  CALLED 

“GERMAN  ROMANCE.” 

This  was  a  Book  of  Translations,  not  of  my  suggesting  or  desiring, 
but  of  my  executing  as  lionest  journey  work  in  defect  of  better  ;  pro¬ 
duced  at  Edinburgh  in  1827.  The  nature  of  which,  and  the  Titles  of 
the  Pieces  selected,  will  sufficiently  appear  as  we  go  on.  The  Pieces 
selected  were  the  suitablest  discoverable  on  such  terms :  not  quite  of 
less  than  no  worth  (I  considered),  any  Piece  of  them  ;  nor,  alas,  of  a 
very  high  worth  any,  except  one  only.  Four  of  these  lots,  or  quotas  to 
the  adventure,  Musaus’s,  Tieck’s,  Richter’s,  Goethe’s,  will  be  given  in 
the  final  stage  of  this  Series :  the  rest  we  willingly  leave,  afloat  or 
stranded,  as  waste  driftwood,  to  those  whom  they  may  farther  concern. 
{Note  of  1857.) 


PREFACE  TO  GERMAN  ROMANCE.1 
[1827.] 

It  were  unhappy  for  me  if  the  reader  should  expect  in  this  Work  any 
full  view  of  so  complex  a  subject  as  German  Novelwriting,  or  of  so  mot¬ 
ley  a  body  as  the  German  Novelwriters.  The  dead  wall,  which  divides 
us  from  this  as  from  all  other  provinces  of  German  Literature,  I  must 
not  dream  that  I  have  anywhere  overturned :  at  the  most,  I  may  have 
perforated  it  with  a  few  loopholes,  of  narrow  aperture  truly,  and  scanty 
range  ;  through  which,  however,  a  studious  eye  may  perhaps  discern 
some  limited,  but,  as  I  hope,  genuine  and  distinctive  features  of  the 
singular  country,  which,  on  the  other  side,  has  long  flourished  in  such 
abundant  variety  of  intellectual  scenery  and  product,  and  been  unknown 
to  us,  though  at  our  very  hand.  For  this  wall,  what  is  the  worst  prop¬ 
erty  in  such  walls,  is  to  most  of  us  an  invisible  one ;  and  our  eye  rests 
contentedly  on  Vacancy,- or  distorted  Fata mor gam  is,  where  a  great  and 

i  German  Romance  :  Specimens  of  its  chief  Authors  ;  with  Biographical  and  Critical 
Notices.  In  Four  Volumes.  (Edinburgh,  1827.) 


92 


APPENDIX. 


true -minded  people  have  been  living  and  labouring,  in  the  light  of 
Science  and  Art,  for  many  ages.  • 

In  such  an  undertaking  as  the  present,  fragmentary  in  its  very  nat¬ 
ure,  it  is  not  absolute,  but  only  relative  completeness,  that  can  be 
looked  for.  German  Novelwriters  are  easily  come  at  ;  but  the  German 
Novelwriters  are  a  class  of  persons  whom  no  prudent  editor  will  hope  to 
exhibit,  and  no  reader  will  engage  to  examine,  even  in  the  briefest 
mode  of  specimen.  To  say  nothing  of  what  has  been  accumulated  in 
past  generations,  the  number  of  Novelists  at  present  alive  and  active  is 
to  be  reckoned  not  in  units,  but  in  thousands.  No  Leipzig  Fair  is  un¬ 
attended  by  its  mob  of  gentlemen  that  write  with  ease  ;  each  duly  offer¬ 
ing  his  new  novel,  among  the  other  fancy-goods  and  fustians  of  that 
great  emporium.  Lafontaine,  for  example,  has  already  passed  his  hun¬ 
dredth  volume.  The  inspirations  of  the  Artist  are  rare  and  transient, 
but  the  hunger  of  the  Manufacturer  is  universal  and  incessant.  The 
novel,  too,  is  among  the  simplest  forms  of  composition  ;  a  free  arena  for 
all  sorts  and  degrees  of  talent,  and  may  be  worked  in  equally  by  a  Henry 
Fielding  and  a  Doctor  Polydore.  In  Germany,  accordingly,  as  in  other 
countries,  the  Novelists  are  a  mixed,  innumerable,  and  most  productive 
race.  Interspersed  with  a  few  Poets,  we  behold  whole  legions  and  hosts 
of  Poetasters,  in  all  stages  of  worthlessness  ;  here  languishing  in  the 
transports  of  Sentimentality,  there  dancing  the  St.  Vitus’  dance  of  hard- 
studied  Wit  and  Humour  ;  some  soaring  on  bold  pinion  into  the  thundery 
regions  of  Atala,  ou  les  Amours  de  deux  Sauvages  ;  some  diving,  on  as 
bold  fin,  into  the  gory  profundities  of  Frankenstein  and  The  Vamypyre  ; 
and  very  many  travelling,  contented  in  spirit,  the  ancient  beaten  high¬ 
way  of  Commonplace. 

To  discover  the  grain  of  truth  among  this  mass  of  falsehood,  especially 
where  Time  had  not  yet  exercised  its  separating  influence,  was  no  plain 
problem  ;  nor  can  I  flatter  myself  either  that  I’  have  exhausted  the 
search,  or  in  no  case  been  deceived  in  my  selection.  The  strength  of 
German  Literature  does  not  lie  in  its  Novelwriters  ;  few  of  its  greatest 
minds  have  put  forth  their  full  power  in  this  department ;  many  of 
them,  of  course,  have  not  attempted  it  at  all.  In  the  seventeenth  cen¬ 
tury,  and  prior,  there  was  nothing  whatever  to  be  gleaned  ;  though 
Anton  Ulrich,  Duke  of  Brunswick  Wolf enbuttel,  had  laid  aside  his  scep¬ 
tre,  to  write  a  novel,1  in  six  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty-two 
pages.  Klopstock,  Herder,  Lessing,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  wrote 
no  novels  :  the  same  might  almost  be  said  of  Schiller  ;  for  his  fragment 

V* 

1  Die  Durchlauchtigste  Syrerin  Aramena  (Her  Most  Serene  Majesty  Aramena  of 
Syria),  1669.  On  the  whole,  it  is  simple  enough  of  our  Magazines  to  inform  us  that  the 
literature,  nay  sometimes  it  is  also  the  language,  of  Germany,  began  to  be  cultivated  in 
the  time  of  Frederick  II.  If  the  names  of  Hutten,  Opitz,  Lohenstein,  &c.  &c.  are  natu¬ 
rally  unknown  to  us,  we  ought  really  to  have  heard  of  Luther.  Nay,  was  not  Jacob 
Dohme  rendered  into  huge  folios,  with  incomparable  diagrams,  in  the  time  of  James  I.  ? 
And  is  not  Hans  Sachs  known  (by  name  at  least)  to  all  barbers  ? 


GERMAN  ROMANCE. 


93 


of  tlie  Geisterseher  (Gliost-seer),  and  his  Magazine-stor/  of  the  Verbrecher 
aus  Verlorener  Ehre  (Criminal  from  Loss  of  Honour),  youthful  attempts, 
and  both  I  believe  already  in  English,  scarcely  form  an  exception.  The 
elder  Jacobi’s  Woldemar  and  Allwill  I  was  forced,  not  without  conscious¬ 
ness  of  their  merits,  to  pass  over  as  too  abstruse  and  didactic  ;  for  a  like 
reason  of  didacticness,  though  in  a  far  different  sense,  Wieland  could 
afford  me  nothing  which  seemed  worthy  of  himself  and  our  present 
idea  of  him  ;  and  Klinger’s  Faust ,  the  product  evidently  of  a  rugged, 
vehement,  substantial  mind,  seemed  much  too  harsh,  infernal,  and  un- 
poetical  for  English  readers.  Of  Novalis  and  his  wondrous  fragments, 
I  could  not  hope  that  their  depth  and  wizard  beauty  would  be  seen 
across  their  mysticism.  Other  meritorious  names  I  may  have  omitted, 
from  ignorance.  Maler  Muller’s  I  was  obliged  to  omit,  because  none 
of  his  fictions  were,  properly  speaking,  novels  ;  and  unwillingly  obliged, 
for  his  plays  and  idyls  bespeak  a  true  artist  ;  and  the  English  reader 
would  do  well,  by  the  earliest  opportunity,  to  substitute  the  warm  and 
vigorous  Adam's  Awakening  of  Muller,  for  Gessner’s  rather  faint  and 
washy  Death  of  Abel,  in  forming  a  judgment  of  the  German  Idyl. 

A  graver  objection  than  that  of  omissions,  is  that,  in  my  selections,  I 
have  not  always  fixed  upon  the  best  performance  of  my  author  ;  and  to 
this  I  have  unhappily  no  contradiction  to  give,  nor  any  answer  to  make, 
except  that  it  lay  not  in  the  nature  of  my  task  to  avoid  it ;  and  that 
often  not  the  excellence  of  a  work,  but  the  humble  considerations  of  its 
size,  its  subject,  and  its  being  untranslated,  had  to  determine  my  choice. 
In  justice  to  our  strangers,  the  reader  will  be  pleased  to  bear  this  fact  in 
mind :  with  regard  to  two  of  them,  to  Fouque  and  Kicliter,  it  is  espe¬ 
cially  necessary. 

By  a  secondary  arrangement,  in  surveying  what  seemed  the  chief 
names  among  the  German  Novelwriters,  we  have  also  obtained  a  view 
of  the  chief  modes  of  German  Novelwriting.  The  Mahrchen  (Popular 
Tale),  a  favourite,  almost  tritical  topic  among  the  Germans,  is  here  twice 
handled ;  in  what  may  be  called  the  prosaic  manner  (by  Musaus),  and 
in  the  poetical  (by  Tieck).  Of  the  Ritterroman  (Chivalry  Romance) 
there  is  also  a  specimen  (by  Fouque) ;  a  short  one,  yet  I  fear,  in  many 
judgments,  too  long.  Hoffmann’s  Golden  Pot  belongs  to  a  strange  sort 
(the  Fantasy-piece),  of  which  he  himself  was  the  originator,  and  which 
its  sedulous  cultivation,  by  minds  more  willing  than  able,  bids  fair,  in 
no  great  length  of  time,  to  explode.  Richter’s  two  works  correspond 
to  our  common  English  notion  of  the  Novel ;  and  Goethe’s  is  a  Kunst- 
roman  (Art-novel),  a  species  highly  prized  by  the  Germans,  and  of 
which  Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship ,  the  first  in  date,  is  also  in  their 
mind  greatly  the  first  in  excellence. 

If  the  reader  will  impress  himself  with  a  clear  view  of  these  six  kinds  ; 
and  then  conceive  some  hundreds  of  persons  incessantly  occupied  in 
imitating,  compounding,  separating,  distorting,  exaggerating,  diluting 


94 


APPENDIX. 


them,  lie  may  have  formed  as  correct  an  idea  of  the  actual  state  of  Ger¬ 
man  Kovel  writing,  as  it  seemed  easy  with  such  means  to  afford  him. 
On  the  general  merits  and  characteristics  of  these  works,  it  is  for  the 
reader  and  not  me  to  pass  judgment.  One  thing  it  will  behove  him 
not  to  lose  sight  of:  They  are  German  Novelists,  not  English  ones; 
and  their  Germanhood  I  have  all  along  regarded  as  a  quality,  not  as 
a  fault.  To  expect,  therefore,  that  the  style  of  them  shall  accord  in  all 
points  with  our  English  taste,  were  to  expect  that  it  should  be  a  false 
and  hollow  style.  Every  nation  has  its  own  form  of  character  and  life  ; 
and  the  mind  which  gathers  no  nourishment  from  the  everyday  circum¬ 
stances  of  its  existence,  will  in  general  be  but  scantily  nourished.  Of 
writers  that  hover  on  the  confines  of  faultless  vacuity,  that  write  not  by 
vision  but  by  hearsay,  and  so  belong  to  all  nations,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  to  none,  there  is  no  want  in  Germany  more  than  in  any  other 
country.  It  would  be  easy  to  fill,  not  four,  but  fo.ur  hundred  volumes 
with  German  Novelists  of  this  unblamable  description  ;  thereby  to  re¬ 
fresh  the  reader  with  long  processions  of  spotless  romances,  bright  and 
stately,  like  so  many  frontispieces  in  La  Belle  Assemble, e,  with  cheeks  of 
the  fairest  carnation,  lips  of  the  gentlest  curvature,  and  most  perfect 
Grecian  noses,  and  no  shade  of  character  or  meaning  to  mar  their  pure 
idealness.  But  so  long  as  our  Minerva  Press  and  its  many  branch- 
establishments  do  their  duty,  to  import  ware  of  that  sort  into  these 
Islands  seems  unnecessary. 

On  the  whole,  as  the  light  of  a  very  small  taper  may  be  useful  in  total 
darkness,  I  have  sometimes  hoped  that  this  little  enterprise  might  assist, 
in  its  degree,  to  forward  an  acquaintance  with  the  Germans  and  their 
literature ;  a  literature  and  a  people  both  well  worthy  of  our  study. 
Translations,  in  this  point  of  view,  can  be  of  little  avail,  except  in  so 
far  as  they  excite  us  to  a  much  more  general  study  of  the  language. 
The  difficulties  of  German  are  little  more  than  a  bugbear:  they  can 
only  be  compared  to  those  of  Greek  by  persons  claiming  praise  or  pud¬ 
ding  for  having  mastered  them.  Three  months  of  moderate  diligence 
will  carry  any  man,  almost  without  assistance  of  a  master,  over  its  prime 
obstacles  ;  and  the  rest  is  play  rather  than  labour. 

To  judge  from  the  signs  of  the  times,  this  general  diffusion  of  Ger¬ 
man  among  us  seems  a  consummation  not  far  distant.  As  an  individ¬ 
ual,  I  cannot  but  anticipate  from  it  some  little  evil  and  much  good  ; 
and  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  the  time  when  a  people  who  have 
listened  with  the  most  friendly  placidity  to  criticisms  1  of  the  slenderest 
nature  from  us,  may  be  more  fitly  judged  of  ;  and  thirty  millions  of 


1  Voltaire’s  patronising  letter  to  Rainier  in  which  he  condescends  to  grant  the  Germans 
some  privileges  of  literary  citizenship,  on  the  strength  of  “  Monsieur  Gottched  ”  (Gott- 
sched  long  ago  acknowledged  as  the  true  German  Antichrist  of  Wit),  is  still  held  in  re¬ 
membrance  ;  so  likewise  is  the  Pore  Boucours1  extremely  satirical  inquiry,  Si  les  Alle- 
mands  peuvent  avoir •  de  Vesprit  ? 


MUS2EUS. 


95 


men,  speaking  in  tlie  same  old  Saxon  tongue,  and  thinking  in  the  same 
old  Saxon  spirit  with  ourselves,  may  he  admitted  to  the  rights  of  broth¬ 
erhood  which  they  have  long  deserved,  and  which  it  is  we  chiefly  that 
suffer  by  withholding. 


MUSiEUS. 

JonANN  August  Mus^eus  was  born  in  the  year  1785,  at  Jena,  where 
his  father  then  held  the  office  of  Judge.  The  quick  talents,  and  kind 
lively  temper  of  the  boy,  recommended  him  to  the  affection  of  his 
uncle,  Herr  Weissenborn,  Superintendent  at  Allstadt,  who  took  him  to 
his  house,  and  treated  him  in  all  respects  like  a  son.  Johann  was  then 
in  his  ninth  year  :  a  few  months  afterwards,  his  uncle  was  promoted  to 
the  post  of  General  Superintendent  at  Eisenach  ;  a  change  which  did 
not  alter  the  domestic  condition  of  the  nephew,  though  it  replaced 
him  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  parents  ;  for  his  father  had  also  been 
transferred  to  Eisenach,  in  the  capacity  of  Councillor  and  Police  Magis¬ 
trate.  With  this  hospitable  relative  he  continued  till  his  nineteenth 
year. 

Old  Weissenborn  had  no  children  of  his  own,  and  he  determined 
that  his  foster-child  should  have  a  liberal  education.  In  due  time  he 
placed  him  at  the  University  of  Jena,  as  a  student  of  theology.  It  is 
not  likely  that  the  inclinations  of  the  youth  himself  had  been  particu¬ 
larly  consulted  in  this  arrangement  ;  nevertheless  he  appears  to  have 
studied  with  sufficient  diligence  ;  for  in  the  usual  period  of  three  years 
and  a  half,  he  obtained  his  degree  of  Master,  and  what  was  then  a 
proof  of  more  than  ordinary  merit,  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Ger¬ 
man  Society.  With  these  titles,  and  the  groundwork  of  a  solid  culture, 
he  returned  to  Eisenach,  to  wait  for  an  appointment  in  the  Church,  of 
which  he  was  now  licentiate. 

For  several  years,  though  he  preached  with  ability,  and  not  without 
approval,  no  appointment  presented  itself  ;  and  when  at  last  a  country¬ 
living  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Eisenach  was  offered  him,  the  people 
stoutly  resisted  the  admission  of  their  new  pastor,  on  the  ground,  says 
his  Biographer,  that  “  he  had  once  been  seen  dancing.”  It  may  be,  how¬ 
ever,  that  the  sentence  of  the  peasants  was  not  altogether  so  infirm  as 
this  its  alleged  very  narrow  basis  would  betoken  ;  judging  from  external 
circumstances,  it  by  no  means  appears  that  devotion  was  at  any  time  the 
chief  distinction  of  the  new  candidate  ;  and  to  a  simple  rustic  flock,  his 
shining  talents,  unsupported  by  zeal,  would  be  empty  and  unprofitable, 
as  sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal.  At  all  events,  this  hindrance 
closed  his  theological  career:  it  came  in  good  season  to  withdraw  him 
from  a  calling,  in  which,  whether  willingly  or  unwillingly  adopted,  his 
history  must  have  been  dishonest  and  contemptible,  and  his  gifts  could 
never  have  availed  him. 


96 


APPENDIX. 


Musaus  liad  now  lost  liis  profession  ;  but  liis  resources  were  not  lim¬ 
ited  to  one  department  of  activity,  and  he  was  still  young  enough 
to  choose  another.  His  temper  was  gay  and  kindly  ;  his  faculties  of 
mind  were  brilliant,  and  had  now  been  improved  by  years  of  steady  in¬ 
dustry.  His  residence  at  Eisenach  had  not  been  spent  in  scrutinising 
the  phases  of  church  preferment,  or  dancing  attendance  on  patrons  and 
dignitaries :  he  had  stored  his  mind  with  useful  and  ornamental 
knowledge  ;  and  from  his  remote  watclitower,  his  keen  eye  had  dis¬ 
cerned  the  movements  of  the  world,  and  firm  judgments  of  its  wis¬ 
dom  and  its  folly  were  gathering  form  in  his  thoughts.  In  his  twenty- 
fifth  year  he  became  an  author  ;  a  satirist,  and  what  is  rarer,  a  just  one. 
Germany,  by  the  report  of  its  enemies  and  lukewarm  friends,  is  seldom 
long  without  some  Idol ;  some  author  of  superhuman  endowments, 
some  system  that  promises  to  renovate  the  earth,  some  science  des¬ 
tined  to  conduct,  by  a  north-west  passage,  to  universal  knowledge. 
At  this  period,  the  Brazen  Image  of  the  day  was  our  English  Richard¬ 
son  ;  his  novels  had  been  translated  into  German  with  unbounded  ac¬ 
ceptance  ;  1  and  Grandison  was  figuring  in  many  weak  heads  as  the 
sole  model  of  a  true  Christian  gentleman.  Mus.'ius  published  his  Ger¬ 
man  Grandison  in  1760  ;  a  work  of  good  omen  as  a  first  attempt,  and 
received  with  greater  favour  than  the  popularity  of  its  victim  seemed 
to  promise.  It  cooperated  with  Time  in  removing  this  spiritual  epi¬ 
demic  ;  and  appears  to  have  survived  its  object,  for  it  was  reprinted 
in  1781. 

The  success  of  his  anonymous  parody,  however  gratifying  to  the 
youthful  author,  did  not  tempt  him  to  disclose  his  name,  and  still  less 
to  think  of  literature  as  a  profession.  With  his  cool,  sceptical  temper, 
he  was  little  liable  to  over-estimate  his  talents,  or  the  prizes  set  up  for 
them  ;  and  he  longed  much  less  for  a  literary  existence  than  for  a  civic 
one.  In  1768,  his  wish,  to  a  certain  extent,  was  granted :  he  became 
Tutor  of  the  Pages  in  the  court  of  Weimar  ;  which  office,  after  seven 
punctual  and  laborious  years,  he  exchanged  for  a  professorship  in  the 
Gymnasium ,  or  public  school  of  the  same  town.  He  had  now  married  ; 
and  amid  the  cares  and  pleasures  of  providing  for  a  family,  and  keep¬ 
ing  house  like  an  honest  burgher,  the  dreams  of  fame  had  faded  still 
farther  from  his  mind.  The  emoluments  of  his  post  were  small  ;  but 
his  heart  was  light,  and  his  mind  humble :  to  increase  his  income,  he 
gave  private  lessons  in  history  and  the  like,  “to  young  ladies  and  gen¬ 
tlemen  of  quality  ;  ”  and  for  several  years  took  charge  of  a  few  board¬ 
ers.  The  names  of  Wieland  and  Goethe  had  now  risen  on  the  world, 
while  his  own  was  still  under  the  horizon  :  but  this  obscurity,  enjoying 
as  he  did  the  kind  esteem  of  all  his  many  personal  acquaintances,  he 
felt  to  be  a  very  light  evil  ;  and  participated  without  envy  in  whatever 
entertainment  or  instruction  his  famed  contemporaries  could  afford  him. 

1  See  the  Letters  of  Meta,  Klopstock’s  lady,  in  Richardson's  Life  and  Correspondence. 


MUS2EUS. 


97 


With  literature  he  still  occupied  his  leisure  ;  he  had  read  and  reflected 
much  ;  but  for  any  public  display  of  his  acquirements,  he  was  making 
no  preparation,  and  feeling  no  anxiety.  * 

After  an  interval  of  nineteen  years,  the  appearance  of  a  new  idol 
again  called  forth  his  iconoclastic  faculty.  Lavater  had  left  his  parson¬ 
age  among  the  Alps,  and  set  out  on  a  cruise  over  Europe,  in  search  of 
proselytes  and  striking  physiognomies.  His  theories,  supported  by  his 
personal  influence,  and  the  honest  rude  ardour  of  his  character,  became 
the  rage  in  Germany  ;  and  men,  women,  and  children  were  immersed 
in  promoting  philanthropy,  and  studying  the  human  mind.  Where¬ 
upon  Musaus  grasped  his  satirical  hammer  ;  and  with  lusty  strokes  de¬ 
faced  and  unslirined  the  false  divinity.  His  Physiognomical  Travels^ 
which  appeared  in  1779,  is  still  ranked  by  the  German  critics  among 
the  happiest  productions  of  its  kind  in  their  literature ;  and  still  read 
for  its  wit  and  acuteness,  and  genial,  overflowing  humour,  though  the 
object  it  attacked  has  long  ago  become  a  reminiscence.  At  the  time  of 
its  publication,  when  everything  conspired  to  give  its  qualities  their  full 
effect,  the  applause  it  gained  was  instant  and  general.  The  author  had, 
as  in  the  former  case,  concealed  his  name :  but  the  public  curiosity 
soon  penetrated  the  secret,  which  he  had  now  no  interest  in  keeping  ; 
and  Musaus  was  forthwith  enrolled  among  the  lights  of  his  day  and 
generation ;  and  courteous  readers  crowded  to  him  from  far  and  near, 
to  see  his  face,  and  pay  him  the  tribute  of  their  admiration.  This  un¬ 
looked  for  celebrity  he  valued  at  its  just  price ;  continuing  to  live  as  if 
it  were  not ;  gratified  chiefly  in  his  character  of  father,  at  having  found 
an  honest  mean  of  improving  his  domestic  circumstances,  and  enlarg¬ 
ing  the  comforts  of  his  family.  The  ground  was  now  broken,  and  he 
was  not  long  in  digging  deeper. 

The  popular  traditions  of  Germany,  so  numerous  and  often  so  im¬ 
pressive,  had  attracted  his  attention ;  and  their  rugged  Gothic  vigour, 
saddened  into  sternness  or  venerable  grace  by  the  flight  of  ages,  became 
dearer  to  his  taste,  as  he  looked  abroad  upon  the  mawkish  deluge  of 
Sentimentality,  with  which  The  Sorrows  of  Werter  had  been  the  inno¬ 
cent  signal  for  a  legion  of  imitators  to  drown  the  land.  The  spirit  of 
German  imagination  seemed  but  ill  represented  by  these  tearful  per¬ 
sons,  who,  if  their  hearts  were  full,  minded  little  though  their  heads 
were  empty :  their  spasmodic  tenderness  made  no  imposing  figure  be¬ 
side  the  gloomy  strength,  which  might  still  in  fragments  be  discerned 
in  their  distant  predecessors.  Of  what  has  been  preserved  from  age  to 
age  by  living  memory  alone,  the  chance  is  that  it  possesses  some  intrin¬ 
sic  merit :  its  very  existence  declares  it  to  be  adapted  to  some  form  of 
our  common  nature,  and  therefore  calculated  more  or  less  to  interest 
all  its  forms.  It  struck  Musaus  that  these  rude  traditionary  fragments 
might  be  worked  anew  into  shape  and  polish,  and  transferred  from  the 
hearths  of  the  common  people  to  the  parlours  of  the  intellectual  and 


98 


APPENDIX. 


refined.  lie  determined  on  forming  a  series  of  Vol7csmd7irc7ien,  or 
Popular  Traditionary  Tales  ;  a  task  of  more  originality  and  smaller 
promise  in  those  days  than  it  would  be  now.  In  the  collection  of  ma¬ 
terials,  he  spared  no  pains  ;  and  despised  no  source  of  intelligence,  how¬ 
ever  mean.  He  would  call  children  from  the  street ;  become  a  child 
along  with  them,  listen  to  their  nursery  tales,  and  reward  his  tiny  nar¬ 
rators  with  a  dreyer  apiece.  Sometimes  he  assembled  a  knot  of  old 
women,  with  their  spinning-wheels,  about  him  ;  and  amid  the  hum  of 
their  industrious  implements,  gathered  stories  of  the  ancient  time  from 
the  lips  of  the  garrulous  sisterhood.  Once  his  wife  had  been  out  pay¬ 
ing  visits :  on  opening  the  parlour-door,  at  her  return,  she  was  met  by 
a  villanous  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  ;  and,  venturing  forward  through 
the  haze,  she  found  her  husband  seated  by  the  stove,  in  company  with 
an  old  soldier,  who  was  smoking  vehemently  on  his  blkck  stump  of  a 
pipe,  and  charming  his  landlord,  between  whiffs,  with  legendary  lore. 

The  Yolks  nidi irchen,  in  five  little  volumes,  appeared  in  1782.  They 
soon  rose  into  favour  with  a  large  class  of  readers  ;  and  while  many 
generations  of  novels  have  since  that  time  been  ushered  into  being  and 
conducted  out  of  it,  they  still  survive,  increasing  in  popularity  rather 
than  declining.  This  pre-eminence  is  owing  less  to  the  ancient  mate¬ 
rials,  than  to  the  author’s  way  of  treating  them.  The  primitive  tradi¬ 
tion  often  serves  him  only  as  a  vehicle  for  interesting  description, 
shrewd,  sarcastic  speculation,  and  gay  fanciful  pleasantry,  extending 
its  allusions  over  all  things  past  and  present,  now  rising  into  comic  hu¬ 
mour,  now  sinking  into  drollery,  often  tasteless,  strained,  or  tawdry, 
but  never  dull.  The  traces  of  poetry  and  earnest  imagination,  here 
and  there  discernible  in  the  original  fiction,  he  treats  with  levity  and 
kind  sceptical  derision :  nothing  is  required  of  the  reader  but  what  all 
readers  are  prepared  to  give.  Since  the  publication  of  this  work,  the 
subject  of  popular  tradition  has  been  handled  to  triteness ;  Volks- 
mdhrchen  have  been  written  and  collected  without  stint  or  limit ;  and 
critics,  in  admitting  that  Muslins  was  the  first  to  open  this  mine  of  en¬ 
tertainment,  have  lamented  the  incongruity  between  his  subject  and 
his  style.  But  the  faculty  of  laughing  has  been  given  to  all  men,  and 
the  feeling  of  imaginative  beauty  has  been  given  only  to  a  few  :  the 
lovers  of  primeval  poetry,  in  its  unadulterated  state,  may  censure  Mu- 
saus;  but  they  join  with  the  public  at  large  in  reading  him. 

This  book  of  Volksmdlirchen  established  the  character  of  its  author 
for  wit  and  general  talent,  and  forms  the  chief  support  of  his  reputa1- 
tion  with  posterity.  A  few  years  after,  he  again  appeared  before  tlie 
public  with  a  humorous  performance,  entitled  Friend  Hein’s  Appari¬ 
tions,  in  the  style  of  Holberg,  printed  in  1785.  Friend  Ilein  is  a  name 
under  which  Musiius,  for  what  reason  his  commentator  Wieland  seems 
unable  to  inform  us,  usually  personifies  Death  :  the  essay  itself,  which 
I  have  never  seen,  may  be  less  irreverent  and  offensive  to  pious  feeling 


MUSsEUS. 


99 


than  its  title  indicates,  and  it  is  said  to  abound  with  “  wit,  humour  and 
knowledge  of  life,”  as  much  as  any  of  his  former  works.  He  had  also 
begun  a  second  series  of  Tales,  under  the  title  of  Straussfedern  (Ostrich- 
feathers)  :  but  only  the  first  volume  had  appeared,  when  death  put  a 
period  to  his  labours.  He  had  long  been  in  weakly  health  ;  often  af¬ 
flicted  with  violent  headaches  :  his  disorder  was  a  polypus  of  the  heart, 
which  cut  him  off  on  the  28tli  of  October,  1787,  in  the  fifty-second  year 
of  his  age.  The  Straussfedern  was  completed  by  another  hand  ;  and  a 
small  volume  of  Remains ,  edited  by  Kotzebue  in  1791,  concludes  the 
list  of  his  writings.  A  simple  but  tasteful  memorial,  we  are  told,  was 
erected  over  his  grave  by  some  unknown  friend. 

Musaus  was  a  practical  believer  in  the  Horatian  maxim,  Nil  admi- 
rari :  of  a  jovial  heart,  and  a  penetrating,  well-cultivated  understand¬ 
ing,  he  saw  things  as  they  were,  and  had  little  disposition  or  aptitude 
to  invest  them  with  any  colours  but  their  own.  Without  much  effort, 
therefore,  he  stood  aloof  from  every  species  of  cant ;  and  was  the  man 
he  thought  himself,  and  wished  others  to  think  him.  Had  his  temper 
been  unsocial  and  melancholic,  such  a  creed  might  have  rendered  him 
spiteful,  narrow  and  selfish  :  but  nature  had  been  kinder  to  him  than 
education  ;  he  did  not  quarrel  with  the  world,  though  lie  saw  its  bar¬ 
renness,  and  knew  not  how  to  make  it  solemn  any  more  than  lovely  ; 
for  his  heart  was  gay  and  kind  ;  and  an  imperturbable  good-liumour, 
more  potent  than  a  panoply  of  brass,  defended  him  from  the  stings  and 
arrows  of  outrageous  Fortune  to  the  end  of  his  pilgrimage.  Few 
laughers  have  walked  so  circumspectly,  and  acquired  or  merited  so 
much  affection.  By  profession  a  Momus,  he  looked  upon  the  world  as 
little  else  than  a  boundless  Chase,  where  the  wise  were  to  recreate 
themselves  with  the  hunting  of  Follies  ;  and  perhaps  he  is  the  only  satir¬ 
ist  on  record  of  whom  it  can  be  said,  that  his  jesting  never  cost  him  a 
friend.  His  humour  is,  indeed,  untinctured  with  bitterness  ;  sportful, 
ebullient  and  guileless  as  the  frolics  of  a  child.  He  could  not  reverence 
men  ;  but  with  all  their  faults  he  loved  them  ;  for  they  were  his  brethren, 
and  their  faults  were  not  clearer  to  him  than  his  own.  He  inculcated 
or  entertained  no  lofty  principles  of  generosity  ;  yet  though  never  rich 
in  purse,  he  was  always  ready  to  divide  his  pittance  with  a  needier  fel- 
lowman.  Of  vanity,  he  showed  little  or  none  :  in  obscurity  he  was 
contented  ;  and  when  his  honours  came,  he  wore  them  meekly,  and 
was  the  last  to  see  that  they  were  merited.  In  society  he  was  courteous 
and  yielding ;  a  universal  favourite ;  in  his  chosen  circle,  the  most 
fascinating  of  companions.  From  the  slenderest  trifle  he  could  spin  a 
boundless  web  of  drollery  ;•  and  his  brilliant  mirth  enlivened  without 
wounding.  With  the  foibles  of  others,  he  abstained  from  meddling  ; 
but  among  his  friends,  we  are  informed,  he  could  for  hours  keep  the 
table  in  a  roar,  when,  with  his  dry  inimitable  vein,  he  started  some 
banter  on  himself  or  his  wife  ;  and,  in  trustful  abandonment,  laid  the 


100 


APPENDIX. 


reins  on  the  neck  of  his  fancy  to  pursue  it.  Without  enthusiasm  of 
character,  or  any  pretension  to  high  or  even  earnest  qualities,  he  was  a 
well-conditioned,  laughter-loving,  kindly  man  ;  led  a  gay,  jestful  life  ; 
conquering  by  contentment  and  mirth  of  heart  the  long  series  of  dif¬ 
ficulties  and  distresses  with  which  it  assailed  him  ;  and  died  regretted 
by  his  nation,  as  a  forwarder  of  harmless  pleasure  ;  and,  by  those  that 
knew  him  better,  as  a  truthful,  unassuming,  affectionate,  and,  on  the 
whole,  very  estimable  person. 

His  intellectual  character  corresponds  with  his  moral  and  social  one ; 
not  high  or  glorious,  but  genuine  so  far  as  it  goes.  He  does  not  ap¬ 
proach  the  first  rank  of  writers  ;  he  attempts  not  to  deal  with  the  deeper 
feelings  of  the  heart ;  and  for  instructing  the  judgment  he  ranks  rather 
as  a  sound,  well-informed,  common-sense  thinker  than  as  a  man  of  high 
wisdom  or  originality.  He  advanced  few  new  truths,  but  he  dressed 
many  old  ones  in  sprightly  apparel  ;  and  it  ought  to  be  remembered, 
that  he  kept  himself  unspotted  from  the  errors  of  his  time  ;  a  merit 
which  posterity  is  apt  to  underrate ;  for  nothing  seems  more  stolid  than 
a  past  delusion  ;  and  we  forget  that  delusions,  destined  also  to  be  past, 
are  now  present  with  ourselves,  about  us  and  within  us,  which,  were 
the  task  so  easy,  it  is  pity  that  we  do  not  forthwith  convict  and  cast 
away.  Musaus  had  a  quick,  vigorous  intellect,  a  keen  eye  for  the  com¬ 
mon  forms  of  the  beautiful,  a  fancy  ever  prompt  with  allusions,  and  an 
overflowing  store  of  sprightly  and  benignant  humour.  These  natural 
gifts  he  had  not  neglected  to  cultivate  by  study  both  of  books  and 
things  ;  his  reading  distinguishes  him  even  in  Germany  ;  nor  does  he 
bear  it  about  him  like  an  ostentatious  burden,  but  in  the  shape  of  spirit¬ 
ual  strength  and  plenty  derived  from  it.  As  an  author,  his  beauties 
and  defects  are  numerous  and  easily  discerned.  His  style  sparkles  with 
metaphors,  sometimes  just  and  beautiful,  often  new  and  surprising  ; 
but  it  is  laborious,  unnatural,  and  diffuse.  Of  his  humour,  his  distin¬ 
guishing  gift,  it  may  be  remarked,  that  it  seems  copious  rather  than 
fine,  and  originates  rather  in  the  understanding  than  in  the  character: 
his  heart  is  not  delicate,  or  his  affections  tender  :  but  he  loves  the  ludi¬ 
crous  with  true  passion  ;  and  seeing  keenly,  if  he  feels  obtusely,  he  can 
choose  with  sufficient  skill  the  point  of  view  from  which  his  object  shall 
appear  distorted,  as  he  requires  it.  This  is  the  humour  of  a  Swift  or  a 
Voltaire,  but  not  of  a  Cervantes,  or  even  of  a  Sterne  in  his  best  passages  ; 
it  may  produce  a  Zadig  or  a  Battle  of  the  Books  ;  but  not  a  Don  Quixote  or 
a  Corporal  Trim,.  Musaus  is,  in  fact,  no  poet  ;  he  can  see,  and  describe 
with  rich  graces  what  he  sees  ;  but  he  is  nothing,  or  very  little  of  a 
Maker.  His  imagination  is  not  powerless  :  it  is  like  a  bird  of  feeble 
wing,  which  can  fly  from  tree  to  tree ;  but  never  soars  for  a  moment 
into  the  aether  of  Poetry,  to  bathe  in  its  serene  splendour,  with  the  region 
of  the  Actual  lying  far  below,  and  brightened  into  beauty  by  radiance  not 
its  own.  He  is  a  man  of  fine  and  varied  talent,  but  scarcely  of  any  genius. 


FRIEDRICH  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE. 


101 


These  characteristics  are  apparent  enough  in  his  Popular  Tales  ;  they 
may  be  traced  even  in  the  few  specimens  of  that  work,  by  which  he  is 
now  introduced  to  the  English  reader.  As  has  been  already  stated,  his 
Volksmdhrchen  exhibit  himself  much  better  than  his  subject.  He  is  not 
admitted  by  his  critics  to  have  seized  the  finest  spirit  of  this  species  of 
fiction,  or  turned  it  to  the  account  of- which  it  is  capable  in  other  hands. 
Whatever  was  austere  or  earnest,  still  more,  whatever  bordered  upon 
awe  or  horror,  his  riant  fancy  rejected  with  aversion :  the  rigorous 
moral  sometimes  hid  in  these  traditions,  the  grim  lines  of  primeval 
feeling  and  imagination  to  be  traced  in  them  had  no  charms  for  him. 
These  ruins  of  the  remote  time  he  has  not  attempted  to  complete  into  a 
perfect  edifice,  according  to  the  first  simple  plan ;  he  has  rather  par- 
getted  them  anew,  and  decorated  them  with  the  most  modern  ornaments 
and  furniture  ;  and  he  introduces  his  guests,  with  a  roguish  smile  at  the 
strange,  antic  contrast  they  are  to  perceive  between  the  movables  and 
the  apartment.  Sometimes  he  rises  into  a  flight  of  simple  eloquence, 
and  for  a  sentence  or  two,  seems  really  beautiful  and  affecting  ;  but  the 
knave  is  always  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  our  credulity,  and  returns 
with  double  relish  to  riot  at  will  in  his  favourite  domain. 

Of  the  three  Tales  here  offered  to  the  reader, 1  nothing  need  be  said 
in  explanation  :  for  their  whole  significance,  with  all  their  beauties  and 
blemishes,  lies  very  near  the  surface.  I  have  selected  them,  as  speci-  . 
mens  at  once  of  his  manner  and  his  materials  ;  in  the  hope,  that,  con¬ 
veying  some  impression  of  a  gifted  and  favourite  writer,  they  may 
furnish  a  little  entertainment  both  to  the  lovers  of  intellectual  novelty, 
and  of  innocent  amusement.  To  neither  can  I  promise  very  much  : 
Musaus  is  a  man  of  sterling  powers,  but  no  literary  monster  ;  and  his 
Tales,  though  smooth  and  glittering,  are  cold  ;  they  have  beauty,  yet  it 
is  the  beauty  not  of  living  forms,  but  of  well-proportioned  statues. 
Meanwhile,  I  have  given  him  as  I  found  him,  endeavour'ng  to  copy 
faithfully ;  changing  nothing,  whether  I  might  think  it  good  or  bad, 
that  my  skill  enabled  me  to  keep  unchanged.  With  all  drawbacks,  I 
anticipate  some  favour  for  him  :  but  his  case  admits  no  pleading  ;  being 
clear  by  its  own  light,  it  must  stand  or  fall  by  a  first  judgment,  and 
without  the  help  of  advocates. 


FRIEDRICH  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUfi. 

The  Baron  Friedrich  de  la  Motte  Fouque  is  of  French  extraction,  but 
distinguished  for  the  true  Germanism  of  his  character,  both  as  a  writer 
and  a  man  ;  and  ranks,  for  the  last  twenty  years,  among  the  most  popu¬ 
lar  and  productive  authors  of  his  country. 

1  1.  Dumb  Love  ;  2.  Libussa  ;  3.  Melechsala, 


102 


APPENDIX. 


His  family,  expelled  from  France  by  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantz,  appears  to  have  settled  at  the  Hague  ;  from  which  this  branch 
of  it  was  transferred  to  Prussia  by  the  fortunes  of  our  Author’s  grand¬ 
father,  whose  name  and  title  the  present  Baron  has  inherited.  This 
first  Friedrich,  born  in  ..the  early  part  of  last  century,  had  been  sent,  in 
boyhood  to  the  Court  of  Anhalt  Dessau,  in  the  character  of  Page  :  lie 
soon  quitted  this  station  ;  entered  the  Prussian  army  as  a  pri  vate  volun¬ 
teer  ;  by  merit,  or  recommendation,  was  gradually  advanced  ;  and  be¬ 
came  acquainted  with  the  Prince  Royal,  then  a  forlorn,  oppressed  and 
discontented  youth,  but  destined  afterwards  to  astonish  and  convulse 
the  world,  under  the  name  of  Frederick  the  Great.  Young  La  Motte 
stood  in  high  favour  with  Frederick  ;  and  seems  likewise  to  have  shown 
some  prudence  in  humouring  the  jealous  temper  of  the  old  King ;  for 
during  the  Prince’s  arrest,  which  had  followed  his  projected  elopement 
from  paternal  tuition,  the  royal  Shylook,  instead  of  beheading  La  Motte, 
as  he  had  treated  poor  De  Catt,  permitted  him  to  visit  the  disconsolate 
prisoner,  and  without  molestation  to  do  him  kind  offices.  On  his  acces¬ 
sion  to  the  throne,  Frederick  the  King  did  not  fail,  in  this  instance,  to 
remember  the  debts  of  Frederick  the  Prisoner :  the  friend  of  his  youth 
continued  to  be  the  friend  of  his  manhood  and  age  ;  La  Motte  rose  rap¬ 
idly  from  post  to  post  in  the  army,  till,  having  gained  the  rank  of  Gen¬ 
eral,  he  had  opportunity,  by  various  gallant  services  in  the  Seven-Years’ 
War,  to  secure  the  prosperity  of  his  household,  and  earn  for  himself  a 
place  in  the  military  history  of  his  new  country.  With  his  Sovereign 
he  continued  in  a  kindly  and  honest  relation  throughout  his  whole  life. 
His  Letters,  preserved  in  Frederick’s  Works,  are  a  proof  that  he  was  not 
only  favoured  but  esteemed :  the  imperious  King  is  said  to  have  re¬ 
spected  his  upright  and  truthful  nature  ;  and,  though  himself  a  sceptic 
and  a  scoffer,  never  to  have  interfered  in  word  or  deed  with  the  piety 
and  strict  religious  persuasions  of  his  servant.  The  General  became  the 
founder  of  that  Prussian  family,  which  has  since  acquired  a  new  and 
fairer  distinction  in  the  person  of  his  grandson. 

The  present  Friedrich,  our  Author,  was  born  on  the  11th  of  Feb¬ 
ruary,  1777.  Of  his  early  history  or  habits  we  have  no  account,  ex¬ 
cept  that  he  was  educated  by  Hulse  ;  and  soon  sent  to  the  army  as 
an  officer  in  the  Royal  Guards.  In  this  capacity  he  served,. during  his 
nineteenth  year,  in  the  disastrous  campaign  of  the  Rhine.  One  of  his 
brother- officers  and  intimates  here  was  Heinrich  von  Kleist,  a  noble- 
minded  and  ill-fated  man  of  genius,  whom  the  mismanagement  of  a 
too  impetuous  and  feeling  heart  has  since  driven  to  suicide,  before 
the  world  had  sufficiently  reaped  the  bright  promise  of  his  early 
years. 

The  misfortunes  of  his  country  drove  Fouque  back  into  retirement : 
while  Prussia  languished  in  hopeless  degradation  under  the  iron  sway 
of  France,  he  kept  himself  apart  from  military  life  ;  settled  in  the 


FRIEDRICH  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE. 


103 


country,  and  hanging  up  his  ineffectual  sword,  devoted  himself  to  do¬ 
mestic  cares  and  joys,  and  in  the  Kingdoms  of  Imagination  sought 
refuge  from  the  aspect  of  actual  oppression  and  distress.  Of  a  temper 
susceptible,  lively  and  devout,  his  faculties  had  been  quickened  by 
communion  with  kindred  minds  ;  and  still  more  by  collision  with  the 
vast  events  which  had  filled  the  world  with  astonishment,  and  his  por¬ 
tion  of  it  with  darkness  and  obstruction.  At  this  juncture,  while  con¬ 
templating  a  literary  life,  it  was  doubtless  a  circumstance  of  no  small 
influence  on  his  future  efforts  that  he  became  acquainted  with  August 
Wilhelm  Schlegel.  By  Schlegel  he  was  introduced  to  the  study  of 
Spanish  Poetry  ;  a  fact  from  which  a  skilful  theoriser  might  plausibly 
enough  deduce  the  whole  psychological  history  of  Fouque  ;  for  it  seems 
as  if  the  beautiful  and  wondrous  spirit  of  this  literature,  so  fervent  yet 
so  joyful,  so  solemn  yet  so  full  of  blandishment,  with  its  warlike  piety, 
and  gay  chivalrous  pomp,  had  taken  entire  possession  of  his  mind,  and 
moulded  his  unsettled  powers  into  the  form  which  they  have  ever  since 
retained.  One  thing,  at  all  events,  is  clear  without  help  of  theory : 
An  ideal  of  Christian  Knighthood,  whencesoever  borrowed  or  derived, 
has  all  along,  with  more  or  less  distinctness,  hovered  round  his  fancy; 
and  this  it  has  been  the  constant  task  not  only  of  his  pen  to  represent 
in  poetical  delineations,  but  also  of  his  life  to  realise  in  external  con¬ 
duct.  As  to  its  origin,  whether  in  the  poetry  of  Spain,  or  in  the  per¬ 
plexities  of  a  suffering  and  religious  life,  or  in  the  French  Revolution 
and  its  reaction  on  a  temper  abhorrent  of  its  material  principles,  or  in 
any  or  all  of  these  causes,  it  were  unprofitable  to  inquire  ;  for  the  prob¬ 
lem  is  of  no  vital  importance,  and  we  have  not  data  for  even  an  approx¬ 
imate  solution. 

Fouque  published  his  first  works  under  the  pseudonym  of  Pelegrin : 
he  translated  the  Numancia  of  Cervantes ;  he  wrote  Sigurd ,  Alwin , 
Tue  History  of  Ritter  Galmy :  a  small  volume  of  Dramatic  Tales  was 
published  for  him  by  his  friend  Schlegel.  These  performances  are  all 
of  a  chivalry  cast ;  attempts  to  body  forth  the  sentiment  with  which 
our  Author’s  mind  was  already  almost  exclusively  pervaded.  Their 
success  was  incomplete  ;  sufficient  to  indicate  their  object,  but  not  to  at¬ 
tain  it.  The  models  which  he  had  in  view  seem  still  to  have  awed  and 
overshadowed  his  poetic  faculty  ;  his  productions  have  a  southern  ex¬ 
otic  aspect ;  and  in  the  opinion  of  his  critics,  it  is  only  in  glimpses  that 
a  genuine  inspiration  can  be  discerned  in  them.  Dev  Held  des  Nordens 
(The  Hero  of  the  NortlP,  a  dramatic  work  in  three  parts,  grounded  on 
the  story  of  the  Niebelungen  Lied ,  was  the  first  performance  sent  forth 
in  his  own  name  ;  and  also  the  first  which  showed  his  genius  in  its 
own  form,  or  produced  any  deep  impression  on  the  public.  This  work 
was  acknowledged  to  be  of  true  northern  growth  :  it  found  applauding 
readers,  and  had  the  honour  to  be  criticised  in  the  Heidelberger  Jahr- 
bucher ,  by  no  meaner  a  person  than  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter,  who 


104 


APPENDIX. 


bestowed  on  the  poet  the  surname  of  Dev  Taj  fere,  or  The  Valiant ,  in 
allusion  to  the  quality  which  seemed  to  be  the  soul  of  his  own  charac¬ 
ter,  and  of  the  characters  which  he  portrayed. 

Tlie  ground  thus  gained,  La  Motte  Fouque  has  not  been  negligent  to 
make  good  and  extend.  Since  the  date  of  his  first  appearance,  year 
after  year  has  duly  added  its  tribute  of  volumes  to  the  list  of  his  works  ; 
he  has  written  in  verse  and  prose,  in  narrative  and  representation  ;  his 
productions  varying  in  form  through  all  the  extremes  of  variety,  but 
animated  by  the  same  old  spirit,  that  of  Knighthood  and  Religion.  On 
the  whole,  he  seems  to  have  continued  growing  in  esteem,  both  with 
the  lower  and  the  upper  classes  of  the  literary  world.  His  Zauberring 
(Magic  Ring)  has  lately  been  translated  into  English  :  we  have  also  ver¬ 
sions  of  his  Sintram  and  his  Undine.  The  last  little  work,  published 
in  1811,  has  become  a  literai-y  pet  in  its  own  country;  being  dandled 
and  patted  not  only  by  the  soft  hands  of  poetical  maidens,  but  even  by 
the  horny  paws  of  Pecensents ,  a  class  of  beings  to  the  full  as  dire  and 
doughty  as  our  own  Reviewers.  Undine  and  Sintram  are  parts  of  a 
series  or  circuit  of  “Romantic  fictions,”  entitled  the  Jahreszeiten  { Sea¬ 
sons),  which  were  published  successively  at  four  different  periods:  it  is 
from  the  same  work,  the  Autumn  Number  of  it,  that  Aslauga’s  Knight , 
the  Tale  which  follows  this  Introduction,  has  been  extracted. 

The  poet  had  now  wedded  :  and  we  figure  him  as  happy  in  his  own 
Arcadian  seclusion  ;  for  his  lady  is  a  woman  of  kindred  genius,  and  has 
added  new  celebrity  to  his  name  by  various  writings,  partly  of  her  own, 
partly  in  concert  with  her  husband.  In  1813,  his  poetic  leisure  was  in¬ 
terrupted  by  the  clang  of  battle-trumpets.  Napoleon’s  star  had  begun 
to  decline ;  and  Prussia  rose,  as  one  man,  to  break  asunder  the  fetters 
with  which  he  had  so  long  chained  Europe  to  the  dust.  The  knightly 
Baron  was  the  first  to  rouse  himself  at  the  voice  of  his  country  ;  he 
again  girded  on  his  harness,  and  took  the  field  at  the  head  of  a  small 
troop  of  volunteers.  His  little  band  would  seem  to  have  been  joined 
with  the  Jiiger  (or,  as  we  call  it,  Chasseur)  Regiment  of  Brandenburg 
Cuirassiers  ;  in  which  squadron  he  served,  first  as  Lieutenant,  then  as 
Rittmeister,  with  the  devout  and  fervid  gallantry,  which  he  had  so  often 
previously  delineated  in  his  writings.  Like  the  lamented  Korner,  he 
stood  by  the  cause  both  with  “the  Lyre  and  the  Sword.”  His  arm  was 
ever  in  the  hottest  of  the  battle  ;  and  his  songs  uplifted  the  triumph  of 
victory,  or  breathed  fresh  ardour  into  the  hearts  of  his  comrades  in  de¬ 
feat.  These  lyrical  effusions  have  since  been  collected  and  published: 
for  the  future  historian  they  will  form  an  interesting  memorial.  At 
Culm,  the  poetical  soldier  was  wounded  ;  but  the  incompleteness  of  his 
cure  did  not  prevent  him  from  appearing  in  his  place  on  the  great  day 
of  Leipzig  ;  and  thenceforward  following  the  scattered  enemy  to  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine.  Here  ill  health,  arising  from  excessive  exertion, 
forced  him  to  return ;  he  had  toiled  faithfully  till  the  struggle  was  de- 


FRIEDRICH  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE. 


105 


cided  ;  and  could  now,  with  a  quiet  mind,  leave  others  to  complete  the 
task.  By  the  King  he  was  raised  to  the  rank  of  Major,  and  decorated 
with  the  cross  of  the  Order  of  St.  John.  He  retired  to  his  former  resi¬ 
dence  at  Rennliausen,  near  Ratlienau  ;  betook  himself  again  to  writing, 
with  unabated  diligence  ;  and  has  since  produced,  among  various  other 
chivalry  performances  of  greater  or  smaller  extent,  an  “  epic  poem,”  en¬ 
titled  Corona ,  celebrating  the  events  in  which  he  himself  was  present, 
and  formed  part.  Here,  so  far  as  I  have  understood,  he  still  chiefly  re¬ 
sides  ;  enjoying  an  enviable  lot ;  the  domestic  society  of  a  virtuous  and 
gifted  wife  ;  the  exercise  of  a  poetic  genius,  which  his  brethren  repay 
with  praise ;  and  still  dearer  honours  as  a  man  and  a  citizen,  which  his 
own  conscience  may  declare  that  he  has  merited. 

Fouque’s  genius  is  not  of  a  kind  to  provoke  or  solicit  much  criticism  ; 
for  its  faults  are  negative  rather  than  positive,  and  its  beauties  are  not 
difficult  to  discern.  The  structure  of  his  mind  is  simple  ;  his  intellect 
is  in  harmony  with  his  feelings  ;  and  his  taste  seems  to  include  few 
modes  of  excellence,  which  he  has  not  in  some  considerable  degree  the 
power  to  realise.  He  is  thus  in  unison  with  himself  ;  his  works  are  free 
from  internal  inconsistency,  and  appear  to  be  produced  with  lightness 
and  freedom.  A  pure  sensitive  heart,  deeply  reverent  of  Truth,  and 
Beauty,  and  Heroic  Virtue ;  a  quick  perception  of  certain  forms  em¬ 
bodying  these  high  qualities  ;  and  a  delicate  and  dainty  hand  in  pictur¬ 
ing  them  forth,  are  gifts  which  few  readers  of  his  works  will  c  ontest 
him.  At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  granted,  he  has  no  preeminence  in 
strength,  either  of  head  or  heart  ;  and  his  circle  of  activity,  though  full 
of  animation,  is  far  from  comprehensive.  He  is,  as  it  were,  possessed 
by  one  idea.  A  few  notes,  some  of  them,  in  truth,  of  rich  melody,  yet 
still  a  very  few,  include  the  whole  music  bf  his  being.  The  Chapel  and 
the  Tilt-yard  stand  in  the  background  or  the  foreground,  in  all  the 
scenes  of  his  universe.  He  gives  us  knights,  soft-hearted  and  strong- 
armed  ;  full  of  Christian  self-denial,  patience,  meekness  and  gay  easy 
daring  ;  they  stand  before  us  in  their  mild  frankness,  with  suitable 
equipment,  and  accompaniment  of  squire  and  dame ;  and  frequently 
the  whole  has  a  true,  though  seldom  a  vigorous,  poetic  life.  If  this  can 
content  us,  it  is  well ;  if  not,  there  is  no  help ;  for  change  of  scene  and 
person  brings  little  change  of  subject  ;  even  when  no  chivalry  is  men¬ 
tioned,  we  feel  too  clearly  the  influence  of  its  unseen  presence.  Nor 
can  it  be  said,  that  in  this  solitary  department  his  success  is  of  the  very 
highest  sort.  To  body  forth  the  spirit  of  Christian  Knighthood  in  ex¬ 
isting  poetic  forms  ;  to  wed  that  old  sentiment  to  modern  thoughts ,  was  a 
task  which  he  could  not  attempt.  He  has  turned  rather  to  the  fictions 
and  machinery  of  former  days  ;  and  transplanted  his  heroes  into  distant, 
ages,  and  scenes  divided  by  their  nature  from  our  common  world. 
Their  manner  of  existence  comes  imaged  back  to  us  faint  and  ineffect¬ 
ual,  like  the  crescent  of  the  setting  moon. 


106 


APPENDIX. 


These  things,  however,  are  not  faults,  hut  the  want  of  merits.  Where 
something  is  effected,  it  were  ungracious  to  reckon  up  too  narrowly  how 
much  is  left  untried.  In  all  his  writings,  Fouquo  shows  himself  as  a 
man  deeply  imbued  with  feelings  of  religion,  honour  and  brotherly 
love  ;  he  sings  of  Faith  and  Affection  with  a  full  heart ;  and  a  spirit  of 
tenderness,  and  vestal  purity,  and  meek  heroism,  sheds  salutary  influ¬ 
ences  from  his  presence.  He  is  no  primate  or  bishop  in  the  Church 
Poetical ;  but  a  simple  chaplain,  who  merits  the  honours  of  a  small  but 
well-discharged  function,  and  claims  no  other. 

In  mental  structure,  Fouquo  seems  the  converse  of  Muslus,  whom  he 
follows  in  the  present  volume.  If  Musffus  was  a  man  of  talent,  with 
little  genius,  Fouquo  is  a  man  of  genius,  with  little  more  than  an  ordi¬ 
nary  share  of  talent.  His  intellect  is  not  richer  or  more  powerful  than 
that  of  common  minds,  nor  his  insight  into  the  world  and  man’s  heart 
more  keen  ;  but  his  feelings  are  liner,  and  the  touch  of  an  aerial  fancy, 
gives  life  and  loveliness  to  the  products  of  his  other  powers.  Among 
English  authors,  we  might  liken  him  to  Southey  ;  though  their  prov¬ 
inces  of  writing  are  widely  diverse  ;  and,  in  regard  to  general  culture 
and  acquirement,  the  latter  must  be  reckoned  greatly  his  superior. 
Like  Southey,  he  finds  more  readily  than  he  invents  ;  and  his  inven¬ 
tion,  when  he  does  trust  to  it,  is  apt  to  be  daring  rather  than  successful. 
Yet  his  extravagant  fictions  are  pervaded  by  a  true  sentiment  ;  a  soft 
vivifying  soul  looks  through  them  ;  a  religious  submission,  a  cheerful 
and  unwearied  patience  in  affliction  ;  mild,  earnest  hope  and  love,  and 
peaceful,  subdued  enthusiasm. 

To  these  internal  endowments,  he  adds  the  merit  of  a  style  by  no 
means  ill  adapted  for  displaying  them.  Lightness  and  simplicity  are 
its  chief  characteristics:  Ids' periods  move  along  in  lively  rhythm ;  stu¬ 
diously  excluding  all  pomp  of  phraseology  ;  expressing  his  strongest 
thoughts  in  the  humblest  words,  and  veiling  dark  sufferings  or  resolute 
purposes  in  a  placid  smile.  A  faint  superficial  gaiety  seems  to  rest  over 
all  his  images :  it  is  not  merriment  or  humour  ;  but  the  self-possession 
of  a  man  too  earnestly  serious  to  be  heedful  of  solemn  looks  ;  and  it 
plays  like  sunshine  on  the  surface  of  a  dark  pool,  deepening  by  contrast 
the  impressiveness  of  the  gloom  which  it  does  not  penetrate. 

If  this  little  Tale  of  Aslauga’s  Knight 1  afford  any  tolerable  emblem  of 
those  qualities,  the  reader  will  not  grudge  perusing  it.  I  pretend  not 
to  offer  it  as  the  best  of  Fouque’s  writings,  but  only  as  the  best  I  know 
of  for  my  present  purpose.  Sintram  and  Undine  are  already  in  our 
language  :  this  tale  is  weaker  in  result,  but  also  shorter  in  compass. 
That  its  chivalry  is  of  a  still  wilder  sort  than  that  which  we  supposed 
Cervantes  had  abolished  two  centuries  ago  ;  that  its  form  is  thin  and 
unsubstantial,  and  its  effect  unsatisfactory,  I  need  not  attempt  to  deny. 
An  extravagant  fiction  for  the  basis ;  delicate,  airy  and  beautiful  deline- 

1  Our  only  Translation  from  Fouqu6. 


4L 


LUDWIG  TUCK. 


107 


ations  in  the  detail ;  and  the  'everlasting  principles  of  Faith,  and  Integ¬ 
rity,  and  Love,  pervading  the  whole  :  such  is  frequently  the  character 
of  Fouque’s  writings  ;  and  such,  on  a  smaller  scale,  appears  to  he  that 
°f  Aslauga/s  Knight,  which  is  now,  with  all  its  imperfections  on  its  head, 
to  be  submitted  to  the  courtesy  of  English  judges. 


LUDWIG  TIECK. 

Ludwig  Tieck,  born  at  Berlin  on  the  31st  of  May  1773,  is  known  to 
the  world  only  as  a  Man  of  Letters,  having  never  held  any  public  station, 
or  followed  any  profession,  except  that  of  authorship.  Of  his  private 
history  the  critics  and  news-hunters  of  his  own  country  complain  that 
they  have  little  information  ;  a  deficiency  which  may  arise  in  part  from 
the  circumstance,  that  till  of  late  years,  though  from  the  first  admired 
by  the  Patricians  of  his  native  literature,  he  has  stood  in  no  high  favour, 
and  of  course  awakened  no  great  curiosity,  among  the  reading  Plebs ; 
and  may  indicate,  at  the  same  time,  that  in  his  walk  and  conversation, 
there  is  little  wonderful  to  be  discovered. 

His  literary  life  he  began  at  Berlin,  in  his  twenty-second  year,  by  the 
publication  of  three  Novels,  following  each  other  in  quick  succession  : 
Abdallah ,  William  Lovell  and  Peter  Leberrecht.  These  works  found  small 
patronage  at  their  first  appearance,  and  are  still  regarded  as  immature 
products  of  his  genius  ;  the  opening  of  a  cloudy  as  well  as  fervid  dawn  ; 
betokening  a  day  of  strong  heat,  and  perhaps  at  last  of  serene  brightness. 
A  gloomy  tragic  spirit  is  said  to  reign  throughout  all  of  them  ;  the  image 
of  a  high  passionate  mind,  scorning  the  base  and  the  false,  rather  than 
accomplishing  the  good  and  the  true  ;  in  rapt  earnestness  “  interrogating 
Fate,’  and  receiving  no  answer  but  the  echo  of  its  own  questions  re¬ 
verberated  from  the  dead  walls  of  its  vast  and  lone  imprisonment. 

In  this  stage  of  spiritual  progress,  where  so  many  not  otherwise  un¬ 
gifted  minds  at  length  painfully  content  themselves  to  take  up  their 
permanent  abode,  where  our  own  noble  and  hapless  Byron  perished 
from  among  us  at  the  instant  when  his  deliverance  seemed  at  hand,  it 
was  not  Tieck’s  ill  fortune  to  continue  too  long.  His  Popular  Tales , 
published  in  1797  as  an  appendage  to  his  last  Novel,  under  the  title  of 
Peter  Leberrechts  Volksm a h  r  di  e n <,  already  indicate  that  he  had  worked 
his  way  through  these  baleful  shades  into  a  calmer  and  sunnier  eleva¬ 
tion  ;  from  which,  and  happily  without  looking  at  the  world  through  a 
painted  glass  of  any  sort,  he  had  begun  to  see  that  there  were  things  to 
be  believed,  as  well  as  things  to  be  denied  ;  things  to  be  loved  and 
forwarded,  as  well  as  things  to  be  hated  and  trodden  under  foot.  The 
active  and  positive  of  Goodness  was  displacing  the  barren  and  torment¬ 
ing  negative  ;  and  worthy  feelings  were  now  to  be  translated  into  their 
only  proper  language,  worthy  actions.  In  Tieck's  mind,  all  Goodness, 


108 


APPENDIX. 


all  that  was  noble  or  excellent  in  Nature,  seems  to  have  combined  itself 
under  the  image  of  Poetic  Beauty  ;  to  the  service  and  defence  of  which 
he  has  ever  since  unweariedlv  devoted  his  gifts  and  his  days. 

These  VolksmdJirchen  are  of  the  most  varied  nature  :  sombre,  pathet¬ 
ic,  fantastic,  satirical  ;  but  all  pervaded  by  a  warm,  genial  soul,  which 
accommodates  itself  with  equal  aptitude  to  the  gravest  or  the  gayest 
form.  A  soft  abundance,  a  simple  and  kindly  but  often  solemn  maj¬ 
esty  is  in  them  ;  wondrous  shapes,  full  of  meaning,  move  over  the 
scene,  true  modern  denizens  of  the  old  Fairyland';  low  tones  of  plaintive¬ 
ness  or  awe  flit  round  us  ;  or  a  starry  splendour  twinkles  down  from 
the  immeasurable  depths  of  Night. 

It  is  by  this  work,  as  revised  and  perfected  long  afterwards,  that  we 
now  purpose  introducing  Tieck  to  the  notice  of  the  English  reader :  it 
was  by  this  also  that  he  was  introduced  to  the  notice  of  his  countrymen. 
Peter  Leberrechts  Yolksmahrchen  was  reviewed  by  August  Wilhelm 
Schlegel,  in  the  Jena  Litter aturzeitun g ;  and  its  author,  for  the  first 
time,  brought  under  the  eye  of  the  world  as  a  man  of  rich  endow¬ 
ments,  and  in  the  fair  way  for  turning  them  to  proper  account.  To  the 
body  of  the  world,  however,  this  piece  of  news  was  surprising  rather 
than  delightful  ;  for  Tieck’s  merits  were  not  of  a  kind  to  split  the  ears 
of  the  groundlings,  and  his  manner  of  producing  them  was  ill  calculated 
to  conciliate  a  kind  hearing.  Schiller  and  Goethe  were  at  this  time 
silent,  or  occupied  with  History  and  Philosophy  :  Tieck  belonged  not 
to  the  existing  poetic  guild  ;  and,  far  from  soliciting  admission,  he  had 
not  scrupled,  in  the  most  pleasant  fashion,  to  inform  the  craftsmen  that 
their  great  Diana  was  a  dumb  idol,  and  their  silver  shrines  an  unprofit¬ 
able  thing.  Among  these  Yolksmahrchen ,  one  of  tire  most  prominent 
is  Der  gestiefelte  Eater,  a  dramatised  version  of  Puss  in  Boots ;  under 
the  grotesque  mask  of  which,  he  had  laughed  with  his  whole  heart,  in 
a  true  Aristoplianic  vein,  at  the  actual  aspect  of  literature  ;  and  without 
mingling  his  satire  with  personalities,  or  any  other  false  ingredient, 
had  rained  it  like  a  quiet  shower  of  volcanic  ashes  on  the  cant  of  Illu¬ 
mination,  the  cant  of  Sensibility,  the  cant  of  Criticism,  and  the  many 
other  cants  of  that  shallow  time,  till  the  gumflower  products  of  the 
poetic  garden  hung  draggled  and  black  under  their  unkindly  coating. 
In  another  country,  at  another  day,  the  drama  of  Puss  in  Boots  may 
justly  be  supposed  to  appear  with  enfeebled  influences  ;  yet  even  to  a 
stranger  there  is  not  wanting  a  feast  of  broad  joyous  humour  in  this 
strange  phantasmagoria,  where  pit  and  stage,  and  man  and  animal,  and 
earth  and  air,  are  jumbled  in  confusion  worse  confounded,  and  the  co¬ 
pious,  kind,  ruddy  light  of  true  mirth  overshines  and  warms  the 
whole. 

This  What-d’ye-call-it  of  Puss  in  Boots  was,  as  it  were  the  key-note 
which  for  several  years  determined  the  tone  of  Tieck’s  literary  enter¬ 
prises.  The  same  spirit  lives  in  his  Verkehrte  Welt  (World  turned  Topsy- 


LUDWIG  T1ECK. 


109 


turvy),  a  drama  of  similar  structure,  which  accompanied  the  former  ; 
in  his  tale  of  Zerbino,  or  the  Tour  in  search  of  Taste ,  which  soon  followed 
it ;  and  in  numerous  parodies  and  lighter  pieces  which  he  gave  to  the 
world  in  his  Poetic  Journal  ;  the  second  and  last  volume  of  which  peri¬ 
odical  contains  his  Letters  on  Shakspeare ,  inculcating  the  same  doctrines, 
in  a  graver  shape.  About  this  time,  after  a  short  residence  in  Ham¬ 
burg,  where  he  had  married,  he  removed  his  abode  to  Jena  ;  a  change 
which  confirmed  him  in  his  literary  tendencies,  and  facilitated  the  at¬ 
tainment  of  their  objects.  It  was  here  that  lie  became  acquainted  with 
the  two  Sclilegels  and,  at  the  same  time,  with  their  friend  Novalis,  a 
young  man  of  a  pure,  warm  and  benignant  genius,  whose  fine  spirit 
died  in  its  first  blossoming,  and  whose  posthumous  works  it  was,  ere 
long,  the  melancholy  task  of  Tieck  and  the  younger  Schlegel  to  publish 
under  their  superintendence.  With  Wackenroder  of  Berlin,  a  person 
of  kindred  mind  with  Novalis,  and  kindred  fortune  also,  having  died 
very  early,  Tieck  was  already  acquainted  and  united  ;  for  he  had  co¬ 
operated  in  the  Herzensergiessungen  eines  einsamen  Klosterbriiders ,  an 
elegant  and  impressive  work  on  pictorial  art,  and  Wackenroder’s  chief 
performance. 

These  young  men  sympathised  completely  in  their  critical  ideiC  ,71"  . 
Tieck  ;  and  each  was  labouring  in  his  own  sphere  to  disseminate  them, 
and  reduce  them  to  practice.  Their  endeavours,  it  would  seem,  have 
prospered  ;  for  in  colloquial  literary  history,  this  gifted  cinquefoil, 
often  it  is  only  the  trefoil  of  Tieck  and  the  two  Sclilegels,  have  the 
credit,  which  was  long  the  blame,  of  founding  a  New  School  of  Poetry, 
by  which  the  Old  School,  first  fired  upon  in  the  Gestiefelte  Kater ,  and 
ever  afterwards  assailed,  without  intermission,  by  eloquence  and  ridi¬ 
cule,  argument  and  entreaty,  was  at  length  displaced  and  hunted  out 
of  being;  or,  like  Partridge  the  Astrologer,  reduced  to  a  life  which 
could  be  proved  to  be  no  life. 

Of  this  New  School,  which  has  been  the  subject  of  much  unwise 
talk,  and  of  much  not  very  wise  writing,  we  cannot  here  attempt  to 
offer  any  suitable  description,  far  less  any  just  estimate.  One  thing 
may  be  remarked,  that  the  epithet  School  seems  to  describe  the  case 
with  little  propriety.  That  since  the  beginning  of  the  present  century, 
a  great  change  has  taken  place  in  German  literature,  is  plain  enough, 
without  commentators  ;  but  that  it  was  effected  by  three  young  men, 
living  in  the  little  town  of  Jena,  is*  not  by  any  means  so  plain.  The 
critical  principles  of  Tieck  and  the  Schlegels  had  already  been  set  forth, 
in  the  form  both  of  precept  and  prohibition,  and  with  all  the  aids  of 
philosophic  depth  and  epigrammatic  emphasis,  by  the  united  minds  of 
Goethe  and  Schiller,  in  the  Horen  and  Xenien .  The  development  and 
practical  application  of  the  doctrine  is  all  that  pertains  to  these  reputed 
founders  of  the  sect.  But  neither  can  the  change  be  said  to  have  origi¬ 
nated  with  Schiller  and  Goethe  ;  for  it  is  a  change  originating  not  in 


110 


APPENDIX . 


individuals,  but  in  universal  circumstances,  and  belongs  not  to  Ger¬ 
many,  but  to  Europe.  Among  ourselves,  for  instance,  within  the  last 
thirty  years,  who  has  not  lifted  up  his  voice  with  double  vigour  in 
praise  of  Sliakspeare  and  Nature,  and  vituperation  of  French  taste  and 
French  philosophy  ?  Who  has  not  heard  of  the  glories  of  old  English 
literature  ;  the  wealth  of  Queen  Elizabeth’s  age  ;  the  penury  of  Queen 
Anne’s  ;  and  the  inquiry  whether  Pope  was  a  poet  ?  A  similiar  temper 
is  breaking  out  in  France  itself,  hermetically  sealed  as  that  country 
seemed  to  be  against  all  foreign  influences  ;  and  doubts  are  beginning 
to  be  entertained,  and  even  expressed,  about  Corneille  and  the  Three 
Unities.  It  seems  to  be  substantially  the  same  thing  which  has  occurred 
in  Germany,  and  been  attributed  to  Tieck  and  his  associates  :  only  that 
the  revolution,  which  is  here  proceeding,  and  in  France  commencing, 
appears  in  Germany  to  be  completed.  Its  results  have  there  been  em¬ 
bodied  in  elaborate  laws,  and  profound  systems  have  been  promulgated 
and  accepted  :  whereas  with  us,  in  past  years,  there  has  been  as  it  were 
a  Literary  Anarchy  ;  for  the  Pandects  of  Blair  and  Bossu  are  obsolete 
or  abrogated,  but  no  new  code  supplies  their  place  ;  and,  author  and 
-critic,  each  sings  or  says  that  which  is  right  in  his  own  eyes.  For  the 
principles  of  German  Poetics,  we  can  only  refer  the  reader  to  the  trea¬ 
tises  of  Kant,  Schiller,  Richter,  the  Sclilegels,  and  their  many  copyists 
and  expositors  ;  with  the  promise  that  his  labour  will  be  hard,  but  not 
unrewarded  by  a  plenteous  harvest  of  results,  which,  whether  they  be 
doubted,  denied  or  believed,  he  will  find  no  trivial  or  unprofitable  sub¬ 
ject  for  his  contemplation. 

These  doctrines  of  taste,  which  Tieck  embraced  every  opportunity  of 
enforcing  as  a  critic,  he  did  not  fail  diligently  to  exemplify  in  practice  ; 
as  a  long  and  rapid  series  of  poetical  performances  lies  before  the  world 
to  attest.  Of  these,  his  Oenoveva ,  a  Play  grounded  on  the  legend  of 
that  Saint,  appears  to  be  regarded  as  his  masterpiece  by  the  best  judges  ; 
though  Franz  Stemebalds  Wanderungen,  the  fictitious  History  of  a  Stu¬ 
dent  of  Painting,  was  more  relished  by  others  ;  and,  as  a  critic  tells  us, 
‘here  and  there  a  low  voice  might  be  even  heard  voting  that  this  novel 
‘  equalled  Wilhelm  Meister ;  the  peaceful  clearness  of  which  it  however 
‘nowise  attained,  but  only,  with  visible  effort,  strove  to  imitate.’  In 
this  last  work  he  was  assisted  by  Wackenroder.  At  an  earlier  period,  he 
had  come  forth,  as  a  translator,  with  a  new  version  of  Don  Quixote :  he 
now  appeared  also  as  a  commentator,  with  a  work  entitled  Minnelieder 
ans  dem  Schwabiscken  Zeitalter  (Minstrelsy  of  the  Swabian  Era),  pub¬ 
lished  at  Berlin  in  1803 ;  with  an  able  Preface,  explaining  the  relation 
of  these  poets  to  Petrarca  and  the  Troubadours.  In  1804,  he  sent  out 
his  Kaiser  Octavianus ,  a  Story  which,  like  the  other  works  mentioned 
in  this  paragraph,  I  have  never  seen,  but  which  I  find  praised  by  his 
countrymen  in  no  very  intelligible  terms,  as  ‘  a  fair  revival  of  the  old 
‘  Mahrchen  (Traditionary  Tale) ;  in  which,'  however,  the  poet  moves 


LUDWIG  TIECK. 


Ill 


‘freely,  and  lias  completed  the  cycle  of  the  romance.’  Die  Gemdlde 
(The  Pictures  ,  another  of  his  fictions,  has  lately  been  translated  into 
English.  . 

Tieck’s  frequent  change  of  place  bespeaks  less  settled  ness  in  Lis  do¬ 
mestic,  than  happily  existed  in  his  intellectual  circumstances.  From 
Jena  he  seems  to  have  again  removed  to  Berlin  ;  then  to  a  country  resi¬ 
dence  near  Frankfort  on  the  Oder  ;  which,  in  its  turn,  lie  quitted  for  a 
journey  into  Italy.  In  this  classic  country  he  found  new  facilities  for 
two  of  his  favourite  pursuits :  he  employed  himself,  it  is  said,  to  good 
purpose,  in  the  study  of  ancient  and  modern  Art ;  to  which,  while  in 
Borne,  he  added  the  examining  of  many  old  German  manuscripts  pre¬ 
served  in  the  Vatican  Library.  From  his  labours  in  this  latter  depart¬ 
ment,  and  elsewhere,  his  countrymen  have  not  long  ago  obtained,  in  ad¬ 
dition  to  the  Minstrelsy,  an  Altdeutsches  Theater  (Old  German  Theatre), 
in  two  volumes,  with  the  hope  of  more.  A  collection  of  Old-German 
Toetry  is  still  expected. 

In  1806,  he  returned  to  Germany  ;  first  tu  Munich,  then  to  his  former 
retreat  near  Frankfort  ;  but,  for  the  next  seven  years,  he  was  little  heard 
of  as  an  active  member  of  the  literary  world  ;  and  the  regret  of  lii«  ad¬ 
mirers  was  increased  by  intelligence  that  ill  health  was  the  cause  of  his 
inactivity.  That  this  inactivity  was  more  apparent  than  real,  he  has 
proved  by  his  reappearance  in  new  vigour  at  a  time  when  he  finds  a 
readier  welcome  and  more  willing  audience.  He  has  since  published 
abundantly  in  various  forms  ;  as  a  translator,  an  editor,  and  a  writer 
both  of  poetry  and  prose.  In  1812,  appeared  his  early  Volksmahrchen , 
retouched  and  improved,  and  combined  into  a  whole,  by  conversations, 
critical, 'disquisitionary  and  descriptive,  in  two  volumes,  entitled  Phan¬ 
toms;  from  which  our  present  specimens  of  him  are  taken.  His  AU- 
deutsches  Theater  was  followed  by  an  Altenglisches,  including  the  disputed 
plays  of  Shakspeare  ;  a  work  gladly  received  by  his  countrymen,  no  less 
devoted  admirers  of  Shakspeare  than  ourselves.  Since  that  time,  he 
lias  paid  us  a  personal  visit.  In  1818,  he  was  in  London,  and  is  said  to 
have  been  well  satisfied  with  his  reception  ;  which  we  cannot  but  hope 
was  as  respectful  and  kind  as  a  guest  so  accomplished,  and  so  friendly 
to  England,  deserved  at  our  hands.  The  fruit  of  his  residence  among 
us,  it  seems,  has  already  appeared  in  his  writings.  He,  has  very  lately 
given  to  the  world  a  Novel  on  Shakspeare  and  his  Times;  in  which  he 
has  not  trembled  to  introduce,  as  acting  characters,  the  great  dramatist 
himself,  with  Marlowe,  and  various  other  poet's  of  that  age.  Such  is 
the  report ;  which  adds,  that  his  work  is  admired  in  Germany ;  but  that 
any  copy  of  it  has  crossed  the  Channel,  I  have  not  heard.  Of  Tieck’s 
present  residence,  or  special  pursuits,  or  economical  circumstances,  I 
am  sorry  to  confess  my  entire  ignorance.  One  little  fact  may  perhaps 
be  worth  adding  ;  that  Sophie  Bernhardi,  an  esteemed  authoress,  is  his 
sister. 


112 


APPENDIX. 


A  very  slight  power  of  observation  will  suffice  to  convince  us  that 
Tieck  is  no  ordinary  man  ;  hut  a  true  Poet,  a  Poet  born , as  well  as  made. 
Of  a  nature  at  once  susceptible  and  strong,  he  has  looked  over  the  circle 
of  human  interests  with  a  far-sighted  and  piercing  eye,  and  partaken 
deeply  of  its  joy  and  woe  ;  and  these  impressions  on  his  heart  or  his 
mind  have  been  like  seed  sown  on  fertile  ground,  ripening  under  the 
skyey  influences  into  rich  and  varied  luxuriance.  He  is  no  more  ob¬ 
server  and  compiler  ;  rendering  back  to  us,  with  additions  or  subtrac¬ 
tions,  the  Beauty  which  existing  things  have  of  themselves  presented  to 
him  ;  but  a  true  Maker,  to  whom  the  actual  and  external  is  but  the  ex¬ 
citement  for  ideal  creations,  representing  and  ennobling  its  effects.  His 
feeling  or  knowledge,  his  love  or  scorn,  his  gay  humour  or  solemn  ear¬ 
nestness,  all  the  riches  of  his  inward  world,  are  pervaded  and  mastered 
by  the  living  energy  of  the  soul  which  possesses  them  ;  and  their  finer 
essence  is  wafted  to  us  in  his  poetry,  like  Arabian  odours  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind. 

But  this  may  be  said  of  all  true  poets ;  and  each  is  distinguished  from 
all  by  his  individual  characteristics.  Among  Tieck’s,  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  is  his  combination  of  so  many  gifts  in  such  full  and  simple 
harmony.  His  ridicule  does  not  obstruct  his  adoration  ;  his  gay  South¬ 
ern  fancy  lives  in  union  with  a  Northern  heart.  With  the  moods  of  a 
longing  and  impassioned  spirit  he  seems  deeply  conversant ;  and  a  still 
imagination,  in  the  highest  sense  of  that  word,  reigns  over  all  his  poetic 
world.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  this  is  his  distinguishing  faculty  ;  ail 
imagination,  not  of  the  intellect,  but  of  the  character,  not  so  much 
vague  and  gigantic  as  altogether  void  and  boundless.  A  feeling  as  of 
desert  vastness  steals  over  us  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  common  scene  ; 
or  in  high  passages,  a  fire  as  of  a  furnace  glows  in  one  small  spot,  under 
the  infinitude  of  darkness:  Immensity  and  Eternity  seem  to  rest  over 
the  bounded  and  quickly-fading. 

His  mind  we  should  call  well  cultivated  ;  for  no  part  of  it  seems 
stunted  in  its  growth,  and  it  acts  in  soft  unimpeded  union.  His  heart 
seems  chastened  in  the  school  of  experience  ;  fervid,  yet  meek  and 
humble,  heedful  of  good  in  mean  forms,  and  looking  for  its  satisfaction 
not  in  passive,  but  in  active  enjoyments.  His  poetical  taste  seems  no 
less  polished  and  pure :  with  all  his  mental  riches  and  excursiveness, 
he  merits  in  the  highest  degree  the  praise  of  chaste  simplicity,  both  in 
conception  and  style.  No  man  ever  rejected  more  carefully  the  aid  of 
exaggeration  in  word  and  thought,  or  produced  more  result  by  humbler 
means.  Who  could  have  supposed  that  a  tragedy,  no  mock-heroic,  but 
a  real  tragedy,  calculated  to  affect  and  excite  us,  could  have  been  erected 
on  the  groundwork  of  a  nursery  tale  ?  Yet  let  any  one  read  Blaubarti n 
the  Phantasus,  and  say  whether  this  is  not  accomplished.  Nor  is  Tieck’s 
history  of  our  old  friend  Bluebeard  any  Fairyland  George  Barnwell ;  but 
a  genuine  play,  with  comic  as  well  as  tragic  life  in  it ;  ‘a  group  of  ear- 


LUDWIG  TIEGK. 


113 


nest  figures,  painted  on  a  laughing  ground,’  and  surprising  us  with  poet¬ 
ical  delight,  where  we  looked  for  anything  sooner. 

In  his  literary  life,  Tieck  has  essayed  many  provinces,  both  of  the 
imaginative  and  the  intellectual  world  ;  but  his  own  peculiar  province 
seems  to  be  that  of  the  Mohr  then  ;  a  word  which,  for  want  of  a  proper 
synonym,  we  are  forced  to  translate  by  the  imperfect  periphrase  of 
Fopular  Traditionary  Tale.  Here,  by  the  consent  of  all  his  critics,  in¬ 
cluding  even  the  collectors  of  real  Mdhrchen ,  he  reigns  without  any 
rival.  The  true  tone  of  that  ancient  time,  when  man  was  in  his  child¬ 
hood,  when  the  universe  within  was  divided  by  no  wall  of  adamant 
from  the  universe  without,  and  the  forms  of  the  Spirit  mingled  and 
dwelt  in  trustful  sisterhood  with  the  forms  of  the  Sense,  was  not  easy 
to  seize  and  adapt  with  any  fitness  of  application  to  the  feelings  of  mod¬ 
ern  minds.  It  was  to  penetrate  into  the  inmost  shrines  of  Imagination, 
where  human  passion  and  action  are  reflected  in  dim  and  fitful,  but 
deeply  significant  resemblances,  and  .to  copy  these  with  the  guileless 
humble  graces  which  alone  can  become  them.  Such  tales  ought  to  be 
poetical,  because  they  spring  from  the  very  fountains  of  natural  feel¬ 
ing  ;  they  ought  to  be  moral,  not  as  exemplifying  some  current  apoph¬ 
thegm,  but  as  imaging  forth  in  shadowy  emblems  the  universal  tenden¬ 
cies  and  destinies  of  man.  That  Tieck  has  succeeded  thus  far  in  his 
Tales  is  not  asserted  by  his  warmest  admirers ;  but  only  that  he  now 
and  then  approaches  such  success,  and  throughout  approaches  it  more 
closely  than  any  of  his  rivals. 

How  far  this  judgment  of  Tieck’s  admirer^  is  correct,  our  readers  are 
now  to  try  for  themselves. 1  Respecting  the  reception  of  these  Tales,  I 
cannot  boast  of  having  any  very  certain,  still  less  any  very  flattering- 
presentiment.  Their  merits,  such  as  they  have,  are  not  of  a  kind  to 
force  themselves  on  the  reader  ;  and  to  search  for  merits  few  readers 
are  inclined.  The  ordinary  lovers  of  witch  and  fairy  matter  will  re¬ 
mark  a  deficiency  of  spectres  and  enchantments  here,  and  complain 
that  the  whole  is  rather  dull.  Cultivated  freethinkers  again,  well 
knowing  that  no  ghosts  or  elves  exist  in  this  country,  will  smile  at  the 
crackbrained  dreamer,  with  his  spelling-book  prose  and  doggrel  verse, 
and  dismiss  him  good-naturedly  as  a  German  Lake-poet.  Alas  !  alas  ! 
Ludwig  Tieck  could  also  fantasy,  ‘like  a  drunk  Irishman,’  with  great 
conveniency,  if  it  seemed  good  to  him  ;  he  can  laugh  too,  and  disbe¬ 
lieve,  and  set  springes  to  catch  woodcocks  in  manifold  wise :  but  his 
present  business  was  not  this:  nor,  I  fear,  is  the  lover  of  witch  matter, 
or  the  cultivated  freethinker,  likely  soon  to  discover  what  it  was. 

Other  readers  there  are,  however,  who  will  come  to  him  in  a  truer 
and  meeker  spirit,  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  be  rewarded  with  some 

1  The  Tales  translated  from  Tieck  are  :  t .  The  Fairhaired  Eckbert ;  2.  The  Trusty 
Eckart  ;  3.  The  Runenberg  ;  4.  The  Elves  ;  5.  The  Goblet. 


114 


APPENDIX. 


touches  of  genuine  poetry.  For  the  credit  of  the  stranger,  I  ought  to 
remind  them  that  he  appears  under  many  disadvantages.  In  the  pro¬ 
cess  of  translation  he  has  necessarily  lost,  and  perhaps  in  more  than 
the  usual  proportion  ;  the  childlike  character  of  his  style  was  apt  to 
diverge  into  the  childish ;  the  nakedness  of  his  rhymes,  perhaps  at  first 
only  wavering  between  simplicity  and  silliness,  must  in  my  hands 
too  frequently  have  shifted  nearer  the  latter.  Above  all,  such  works 
as  his  come  on  us  unprepared  ;  unprovided  with  any  model 1  by  which 
to  estimate  them,  or  any  category  under  which  to  arrange  them. 
Nevertheless,  the  present  specimens  of  Tieck  do  exhibit  some  features 
of  his  mind  ;  a  few,  but  those,  as  it  seems  to  me,  its  rarest  and  highest 
features:  to  such  readers,  and  with  such  allowances,  the  Iiunenbery, 
the  Trusty  Eckart  and  their  associates  may  be  commended  with  some 
confidence. 


E.  T.  W.  HOFFMANN. 

Hoffmann’s  Life  and  Remains  have  been  published,  shortly  after 
his  decease,  and  with  an  amplitude  of  detail  corresponding  rather  to 
the  popularity,  than  to  the  intrinsic  merit,  of  the  subject  ;  for  Hoffmann 
belongs  to  that  too  numerous  class  of  vivid  and  gifted  literary  men,  whose 
genius,  never  cultured  or  elaborated  into  purity,  finds  loud  and  sud¬ 
den,  rather  than  judicious  or  permaiffcnt  admiration  ;  and  whose  his¬ 
tory,  full  of  error  and  perplexed  vicissitude,  excites  sympathising  re¬ 
gret  in  a  few,  and  unwise  wonder  in  many.  From  this  Work,  which 
is  honestly  and  modestly  enough  written,  and  has,  to  all  appearance, 
been  extensively  read  and  approved  of,  I  borrow  most  of  the  following 
particulars. 

Ernst  Theodor  Wilhelm  Hoffmann  wTas  born  at  Konigsberg,  in  Prus¬ 
sia,  on  the  24tli  of  January  1776.  His  father  occupied  a  post  of  some 
dignity  in  the  administration  of  Justice  ;  the  mother’s  relatives  were 
also  engaged  in  the  profession  of  Law ;  most  of  them  respectably,  some 
of  them  with  considerable  influence  and  reputation.  The  elder  Hoff¬ 
mann  is  said  to  have  been  a  man  of  talent ;  but  his  temper  and  habi¬ 
tudes  were  irregular  ;  his  wife  was  sickly,  sensitive  and  perhaps  queru¬ 
lous  and  uncompliant :  in  our  Ernst  their  second  child’s  third  year,  the 
parents  discovered  that  they  could  not  live  together  ;  and,  apparently 
by  mutual  consent,  dissolved  their  ill-assorted  union.  The  father  with¬ 
drew  from  Konigsberg,  to  prosecute  his  legal  and  judicial  engagements 
elsewhere  ;  and  seems  to  have  troubled  himself  no  farther  about  his 
offspring  or  old  connexions  :  he  died,  several  years  after,  at  Insterburg, 

1  I  have  not  forgotten  Allan  Cunningham’s  Traditional  Tales  of  the  English  and  Scot¬ 
tish  Peasantry  ;  a  work  full  of  kind  fancy  and  soft  glowing  exuberance,  and  with  traces 
of  a  genius  which  might  rise  into  a  far  loftier  and  purer  element  than  it  has  ever  yet  moved 
and  lived  in. 


E.  T.  W.  HOFFMANN. 


115 


where  he  had  been  stationed  as  a  Judge  in  the  Criminal  Court  of  the 
Oberland.  The  other  parent  retired  with  young  Ernst  to  her  mother’s 
house,  also  in  Konigsberg ;  and  there,  in  painful  inaction,  wore  out 
seventeen  sick  and  pitiable  years,  before  death  put  a  period  to  her  suf¬ 
ferings.  Prior  to  the  separation,  the  elder  child,  also  a  boy,  had  gone 
astray  into  wicked  courses,  and  at  last  set  forth  as  an  infant  prodigal 
into  the  wide  world.  The  two  brothers  never  met,  though  the  elder  is 
said  to  be  still  in  life. 

Cut  off  from  his  natural  guardians  and  directors,  young  Hoffmann 
seems  to  have  received  no  adequate  compensation  for  the  want  of  them, 
and  his  early  culture  was  but  ill  conducted.  The  grandmother,  like 
her  daughter,  was  perpetually  sick,  neither  of  the  two  almost  ever  stir¬ 
ring  from  their  rooms.  An  uncle,  retired  with'  the  barren  title  of 
Justizrath  from  an  abortive  practice  of  Law,  took  charge  of  the  boy’s 
education:  but  little  Otto  had  no  insight  into  the  endowments  or  per¬ 
versities  of  his  nephew,  and  spent  much  fruitless  effort  in  endeavouring 
to  train  the  frolicsome  urchin  to  a  clock-work  life  like  his  own  ;  for 
Otto  lived  by  square  and  rule  ;  his  history  was  a  rigid,  strenuous,  me¬ 
thodical  procedure ;  of  which,  indeed,  except  the  process  of  digestion, 
faithfully  enough  performed,  the  result,  in  Otto’s  case,  was  nothing. 
An  unmarried  aunt,  the  only  other  member  of  the  family,  the  only 
member  of  it  gifted  with  any  share  of  sense,  appears  to  have  had  a 
truer  view  of  young  Hoffmann  ;  but  she  loved  the  little  rogue  too  well; 
and  her  tenderness,  though  repaid  by  equal  and  continued  tender¬ 
ness  on  his  part,  perhaps  hurt  him  more  than  the  leaden  constraint  of 
his  uncle.  For  the  rest,  the  boy  did  not  let  the  yoke  lie  too  heavy  on 
his  shoulders :  Otto,  it  is  true,  was  his  teacher',  his  chamber-mate  and 
bed-mate  ;  but  every  Thursday  the  little  Justizrath  went  out  to  pay 
visits,  and  the  pupil  could  then  celebrate  a  day  of  bedlam  jubilee  :  in 
a  little  while  too,  by  superiority  of  natural  cunning,  he  had  sounded 
the  Justizrath  ;  and  from  his  twelfth  year,  we  are  told,  he  scarcely  ever 
spoke  a  word  with  him,  except  for  purposes  of  mystification.  In  this  prim 
circle,  he  grew  up  in  almost  complete  isolation  ;  for,  by  reason  of  its  fan¬ 
tastic  strictness,  the  household  was  visited  by  few  ;  and  except  one  boy,  a 
nephew  of  the  Author  Hippel’s,  with  whom  he  accidentally  became 
acquainted,  Hoffmann  had  no  companion  but  his  foolish  uncle  and  his 
too  fond  aunt.  With  young  Hippel  his  intimacy  more  and  more  in¬ 
creased  ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  record  of  both,  that  this  early  connexion 
continued  unbroken,  often  warm  and  helpful,  through  many  changes  of 
fortune  ;  Hoffmann’s  school-friend  stood  by  his  death-bed,  and  took  his 
farewell  of  him  with  true  heartfelt  tears. 

For  classical  instruction,  he  was  early  sent  to  the  public  school  of 
Konigsberg  ;  but  till  his  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  year,  he  acquired  no 
taste  for  these  pursuits  ;  and  remained  unnoticed  by  his  teacher,  and 
by  all  his  schoolfellows,  except  Hippel,  rather  disrespected  and  disliked. 


116 


APPENDIX. 


V 


Music  and  painting,  in  which  also  he  had  masters,  were  more  to  his 
taste  :  in  a  short  while,  he  could  fantasy  to  admiration  on  the  harpsi¬ 
chord  ;  and  there  was  no  comic  visage  in  Konigsberg  which  he  had  not 
sketched  in  caricature.  His  tiny  stature  (for  in  youth,  as  in  manhood, 
he  was  little,  and  ‘  incredibly  brisk  ’)  giving  him  an  almost  infantile  ap¬ 
pearance,  added  new  wonder  to  these  attainments  ;  and  so  young  Ernst 
became  a  musical  and  pictorial  prodigy ;  to  the  no  small  comfort  of  Jus- 
tizrath  Otto,  who  delighted  to  observe  that  the  little  imp  who  had  played 
him  so  many  sorry  tricks,  and  so  often  overset  the  steady  machinery  of 
his  household  economy,  was  turning  out  not  a  blackguard,  but  a  genius. 

With  more  prudence  and  regularity  than  could  have  been  expected, 
Hoffmann  betook  himself,  in  due  time,  to  preparing  for  the  legal  pro¬ 
fession  ;  to  which,  as  if  by  hereditary  destiny,  he  was  appointed.  In 
the  Konigsberg  University,  indeed,  he  confessed  that  Kant’s  prelections 
were  a  dead  letter  to  him,  though  it  was  at  that  time  the  fashion  both 
for  the  wise  and  simple  to  be  metaphysically  transcendental :  but  he 
abstained  from  the  riotous  practices  of  his  fello vt-bursclisn,  and  pur¬ 
sued  with  strict  fidelity  the  tasks  by  which  he  hoped  ere  long  to  gain  an 
independent  livelihood,  and  be  delivered  from  the  thraldom  of  his 
grandmother  and  Justizrath  Otto.  In  this  hope  he  laboured  ;  allowing 
himself  no  recreation,  except  once  a-week  an  evening  of  literary  talk 
with  liis  fellow-student  Hippel,  and  an  occasional  glance  into  Winkel- 
mann ,  or  other  works  on  Art,  to  which,  as  formerly,  the  better  part  of 
his  nature  was  passionately  devoted. 

In  1795,  he  passed  his  first  professional  trial,  and  was  admitted  Aus- 
cultator  of  the  Court  of  Konigsberg :  an  establishment  administrative  as 
well  as  judicial  ;  in  which,  however,  owing  to  the  pressure  of  appli¬ 
cants,  it  was  impossible  to  give  him  full  employment.  This  leisure, 
which,  with  so  hot  and  impatient  a  spirit,  hung  heavy  enough  on  his 
hands,  he  endeavoured  to  fill  up  with  subsidiary  pursuits  :  he  gave  pri¬ 
vate  lessons  in  music  ;  he  painted  wild  landscapes,  or  grotesque  figures, 
to  which  ‘  a  bold  alternation  of  colour  and  shade 1  gave  a  specific  charac¬ 
ter  ;  he  talked  of  men  and  things,  with  the  most  sportful  fancy,  or  the 
most  biting  sarcasm:  in  fine,  he  wrote  two  Novels.  One  of  these,  at 
least,  he  had  hoped  to  see  in  print ;  for  a  bookseller  had  received  it 
with  some  expressions  of  encouragement :  but  after  half  a  year,  his  fair 
manuscript  was  returned  to  him  all  soiled  and  creased,  with  an  answer, 
that  ‘the  anonymity  of  the  work  was  likely  to  hurt  its  sale.’  In  the 
mean  time,  his  situation  had  become  still  more  perplexed  by  a  private 
incident  in  the  style  of  the  Nouvelle  Ileloise.  One  of  his  fair  music- 
pupils  was  too  lovely  and  too  soft-hearted  :  no  marriage  could  be  thought 
of  between  the  parties,  for  she  was  far  above  him  in  rank  ;  and  the 
contradictions  and  entanglements  of  this  affair  so  pained  and  oppressed 
him,  that  he  longed  with  double  vehemence  to  be  out  of  Konigsberg. 
At  last,  after  much  wavering  and  consulting,  he  snatched  himself  away, 


E.  T.  W.  HOFFMANN. 


117 


with  a  resolute,  indeed  almost  heroic  effort,  from  the  unpropitious 
scene  ;  and  proceeded,  in  the  summer  of  1796,  to  Great  Glogau  in  Sile¬ 
sia,  where  another  uncle,  a  brother  of  Otto’s,  occupied  a  post  in  the  Ad¬ 
ministration,  and  had  promised  to  procure  him  emploj^ment. 

In  Great  Glogau  he  did  not  find  the  composure  which  he  was  in  search 
of  ;  his  uncle  and  his  cousins  treated  him  with  great  affection,  and  his 
labour  was  not  irksome  or  unprofitable  ;  but,  in  his  letters,  he  complains 
incessantly  of  tedium,  and  other  spiritual  maladies ;  and,  in  1798,  he 
joyfully  took  leave  of  Silesia,  following  his  uncle,  who  was  now  pro¬ 
moted  to  a  higher  legal  post  in  Berlin.  Here  too  the  young  jurist  con¬ 
tinued  only  for  a  short  time.  Having  passed  his  third  and  last  trial, 
the  examen  rigorosum,  and  this  with  no  common  applause,  he  was  soon 
afterwards  appointed  Assessor  of  the  Court  at  Posen,  in  South  Prussia 
(Poland) ;  whither  he  proceeded  in  March  1800. 

With  Hoffmann’s  removal  to  Poland,  begins  a  new  era  of  his  life :  he 
was  now  director  of  his  own  actions,  and  unhappily  he  did  not  direct 
them  well.  At  Berlin,  and  even  at  Great  Glogau,  he  had  been  accus¬ 
tomed  to  enliven  the  routine  of  legal  duty  by  the  study  of  Art ;  for 
which  the  public  collections  of  pictures,  and  the  numerous  professors  of 
music,  had  in  both  cities  afforded  considerable  opportunity.  In  Posen, 
these  resources  were  abridged ;  there  was  little  music,  little  painting  ; 
his  official  associates  were  dry  weekday  men,  who  worked  hard  at  their 
desks,  and  lived  hard  when  enfranchised  from  them ;  without  taste  for 
literature,  or  art  of  any  kind,  except  it  were  the  art  of  cookery  and 
brewing.  The  Poles  also  were  a  lively,  jolly  people,  and  much  addicted 
to  ‘strong  Hungary  wine.’  Hoffmann  yielded  too  far  to  the  custom  of 
the  land  ;  and  here,  it  would  seem,  contracted  habits  of  irregularity, 
from  which  he  could  never  after  get  delivered.  Another  refuge  against 
tedium,  derived  from  his  own  peculiar  resources,  was  even  less  to  be 
excused.  In  private  hours,  he  had  condescended  to  become  the  scandal¬ 
ous  chronicle  of  Posen,  and  to  sketch  a  series  of  caricati  res,  exhibiting, 
under  the  most  ludicrous  yet  recognisable  aspects,  a  great  number  of 
individuals  and  transactions  ;  sparing  no  rank  or  relation,  where  he 
fancied  himself  to  have  been  provoked,  or  thought  his  satire  might  be 
expected  to  tell.  On  occasion  of  a  masquerade,  a  gay  companion,  his 
future  brother-in-law,  equipped  himself  like  an  Italian  hawker  ;  jind 
proceeding  to  the  ball  with  his  pestilent  ware  in  liis  basket,  distributed 
the  pictures,  each  picture  to  some  ill-wisher  of  the  person  whom  it  repre¬ 
sented  ;  and  then  vanished  from  the  room.  For  the  first  half  hour, 
there  was  a  general  triumph  ;  which,  on  comparing  notes,  passed  into  a 
general  wail.  The  author  was  speedily  detected :  his  talent,  the  only 
thing  admirable  in  the  transaction,  betrayed  him,  and  the  punishment 
followed  close  on  the  offence.  Intelligence  was  sent  to  Berlin  :  and 
the  patent,  lying  ready  for  signature,  which  should  have  made  him  Rath 
(Councillor)  at  Posen,  was  changed  for  a  similar  appointment  at  Plozk  ; 


118 


APPENDIX. 


a  change  which,  in  all  points,  he  regarded  as  an  exile,  hut  which  his 
best  friends  could  not  help  admitting  that  he  had  richly  merited. 

From  Plozk  he  failed  not  to  emit  his  Tristia  ;  soliciting,  with  press¬ 
ing  earnestness,  deliverance  from  his  Polish  Tomos.  What  was  more 
to  the  pimpose,  he  seems  to  have  amended  his  conduct :  he  had  mar¬ 
ried  while  in  Posen ;  his  wife,  a  fair  Poless,  was  possessed  of  many 
graces,  and  of  contentment  and  submissiveness  without  limit ;  and  the 
husband  was  beginning  to  substitute  the  duties  and  enjoyments  of  do¬ 
mestic  and  studious  life,  for  the  revelry  and  riot  in  which  of  late  he 
had  much  too  deeply  mingled.  In  his  official  capacity,  his  assiduity 
and  perseverance  so  far  gained  on  his  superiors,  that  at  length,  by  the 
influence  of  Hippel  and  other  friends,  he  Avas  transferred  from  Plozk  to 
Warsaw  ;  after  having  spent  two  regretful,  but  diligent  and  not  unprofit¬ 
able  years,  in  this  provincial  seclusion.  In  the  summer  of  1804,  he 
hastened  to  his  new  destination,  which  his  fancy  had  decked  for  him 
in  all  the  colours  of  hope. 

To  Hoffmann,  the  Polish  capital  was  like  a  vast  perpetual  masquer¬ 
ade  ;  and  for  a  time  he  enjoyed  its  exotic,  many-coloured  aspect,  the 
more  from  its  contrast  with  his  late  way  of  life.  His  public  duty  was 
not  difficult,  and  he  performed  it  punctually  ;  his  salary  sufficed  him  ; 
there  were  theatres  and  music  on  every  hand  ;  and  the  streets  were 
peopled  with  a  motley  tumult  of  the  strangest  forms:  ‘gav  silken 
‘  Polesses,  talking  and  promenading  over  broad  stately  squares;  the 
‘  ancient  venerable  Polish  noble,  with  moustaches,  caftan,  sash,  and 
‘red  or  yellow  boots  ;  the  new  race  equipped  as  Parisian  Incroyables ; 
‘  with  foreigners  of  every  nation  ;  ’  not  excluding  long-bearded  Jews, 
puppetshow-men,  monks,  and  dancing-bears.  In  a  little  while,  Hoff¬ 
mann  had  formed  some  acquaintances  among  the  human  part  of  the 
throng  ;  with  one  Ilitzig,  his  colleague  in  office,  he  established  a  lasting 
intimacy.  It  began  oddly  enough :  one  day  the  two  were  walking 
home  together  from  the  Court,  and  engaged  in  laborious,  stinted  and 
formal  conversation,  when  Hoffmann,  asking  the  character  of  some  in¬ 
dividual,  the  other  answered,  in  the  words  of  Falstaff,  that  he  was  ‘  a 
fellow  in  buckram  ;  ’  a  phrase  which  enlightened  the  caustic  visage  of 
Hoffmann,  at  all  times  shy  to  strangers,  and  at  once  raised  him  into 
onb  of  his  brilliant  communicative  moods.  This  Ilitzig,  himself  a  man 
of  talent  and  energy,  was  of  great  service  in  assisting  Hoffmann’s  intel¬ 
lectual  culture  while  at  Warsaw,  and  stood  by  him  afterwards  in  many 
difficult  emergencies. 

An  enthusiast  dilettante  prepared  a  new  source  of  interest  to  Hoff¬ 
mann,  by  a  scheme  which  he  proposed  of  erecting  a  Musical  Institution. 
By  dint  of  great  effort,  the  dilettante  succeeded  in  procuring  subscrib¬ 
ers  ;  first  one  deserted  palace,  then  a  larger  one,  was  purchased  for  a 
hall  of  meeting  :  and  Hoffmann,  seeing  that  the  scheme  was  really  to 
take  effect,  now  entered  into  it  with  heart  and  hand.  He  planned  the 


E%  T.  W.  HOFFMANN. 


119 


arrangement  of  tlie  rooms  in  the  New  Ressource :  for  their  decorations, 
he  sketched  cartoons,  part  of  which  were  painted  by  other  artists,  part 
he  himself  painted  ;  not  forgetting  to  introduce  caricature  portraits  of 
many  honest  subscribers,  whom,  by  wings  and  tails,  he  disguised  as 
sphinxes,  gryphons,  and  other  mythological  cattle.  His  time  was 
henceforth  divided  between  his  Court  and  this  Musical  Ressource  : 
here,  perched  on  his  scaffold,  among  his  paint  pots,  with  the  brush  in 
his  hand,  and  a  bottle  of  Hungary  by  his  side,  he  might,  in  free  hours, 
be  seen  diligently  working,  and  talking  in  the  mean  while  to  his  friends 
assembled  below.  If  called  to  any  juridical  function  by  any  extraordi¬ 
nary  mandate  from  the  President,  he  would  doff  his  painter’s-jacket, 
clamber  down  from  his  scaffold,  wash  his  hands,  and,  to  the  surprise  of 
parties,  transact  their  business  as  rapidly  and  correctly,  as  if  he  had 
known  no  other  employment. 

The  Musical  Ressource  prospered  beyond  expectation  :  brilliant  con¬ 
certs  were  given  ;  all  that  was  fairest  and  gracefullest  in  Warsaw  attend¬ 
ing,  or  even  assisting :  Hoffmann  officiated  as  leader  in  their  perform¬ 
ance  ;  and,  especially  in  Mozart’s  pieces,  was  allowed  to  have  done  his 
part  with  consummate  skill.  Ere  long,  however,  these  melodious  fes¬ 
tivities  were  abruptly  closed.  News  came  of  the  battle  of  Jena  ;  Russian 
foreposts  entered  the  city  ;  Tartars,  Cossacks,  Bashkirs  increased  the 
chaos  of  its  population.  In  due  time,  arrived  French  envoys  to  treat  of 
a  surrender  ;  the  Prussians  mounted  guard  with  their  knapsacks  on  ; 
and  one  morning  tidings  spread  over  the  city,  that  the  Praga  bridge  of 
boats  was  on  fire,  that  the  Russians  and  Prussians  were  retiring  on  the 
one  side,  and  Murat’s  advanced-guard  entering  by  the  other.  The  rest 
is  easy  to  conceive:  the  Prussian  government  was  at  an  end  in  Warsaw  ; 
Hoffmann’s  Collegium  honestly  divided  the  contents  of  their  strongbox, 
then  closed  the  partnership,  and  dispersed,  each  whither  he  listed,  to 
seek  safety  and  new  employment. 

To  most  of  them  this  was  a  grievous  stroke  :  not  to  Hoffmann.  For 
him,  Warsaw  was  still  a  fine  variegated  spectacle  ;  he  had  money  enough 
for  present  wants  ;  of  the  future  he  took  little  heed,  or  thought  loosely 
that  he  could  live  by  Art,  and  that  Art  was  far  better  than  Law.  Leav¬ 
ing  his  large  house,  where  his  purse  seemed  hardly  safe  from  military 
violence,  he  took  refuge  in  the  garret  of  the  Musical  Ressource  :  here 
was  his  pianoforte  and  a  library,  here  his  wife  and  only  child  ;  with¬ 
out,  were  Napoleon  and  his  generals,  reviews,  restaurateurs ,  theatres, 
churches  with  musical  monks  ;  and  abundance  of  fellow-loungers  to  at¬ 
tend  him  in  these  amusements.  It  was  not  till  after  a  severe  attack  of 
fever,  and  the  most  visible  contraction  of  his  purse,  that  he  seriously 
bethought  him  what  he  was  to  do.  A  sad  enough  outlook !  For  Art, 
which  had  seemed  so  benignant  at  a  distance,  was  shy  and  inaccessible 
when  actually  applied  to  for  bread.  Hitzig  had  hastened  off  to  Berlin, 
and  there  opened  a  bookshop,  in  hope  of  better  times :  but  his  accounts 


120 


APPENDIX. 


of  musical  profits  in  that  city  were  discouraging  ;  and  for  the  journey 
to  Vienna,  which  he  advised  and  gave  letters  to  forward,  Hoffmann  had 
now  no  funds.  Iiis  uncle  in  Berlin  was  dead  ;  from  little  Otto  nothing 
could  be  drawn  :  the  perplexity  was  thickening,  and  the  means  of  un¬ 
ravelling  it  were  daily  diminishing.  For  the  present,  he  resolved  to 
leave  his  wife  and  daughter  at  Posen,  with  their  relations,  and  to  visit 
Berlin  himself  in  quest  of  some  employment. 

In  Berlin  he  could  find  no  employment  whatever,  either  as  a  portrait- 
painter,  a  teacher  or  a  composer  of  music  ;  meanwhile  the  last  remnant 
of  his  cash,  his  poor  six  Friedriclis-d’or,  were  one  night  filched  from  his 
trunk  ;  and  news  came  from  Posen,  that  his  little  Cecilia  was  dead,  and 
his  wife  dangerously  ill.  In  this  extremity,  his  heart  for  a  while  had 
nigh  failed  him  ;  but  he  again  gathered  courage,  and  made  a  fresh  at¬ 
tempt.  He  published  in  the  newspapers  an  advertisement,  offering  him¬ 
self  as  Music-director,  on  the  most  moderate  terms,  in  any  theatre  ;  and 
was  happy  enough,  soon  afterwards,  to  make  an  engagement  of  the  kind 
he  wished,  with  the  managers  of  the  Bamberg  stage,  at  that  time  under 
the  patronage  of  the  Count  von  Soden. 

To  an  ordinary  temper,  this  very  humble  preferment  would  have  of¬ 
fered  but  a  mortifying  contrast  with  former  affluence  and  official  respec¬ 
tability  :  Hoffmann,  however,  saw  in  it  the  means  of  realising  his  long- 
cherished  wish,  a  life  devoted  to  Art ;  and  hastened  to  his  Bamberg 
musical  appointment  with  gayer  hopes  than  he  had  ever  fixed  on  any 
other  prospect.  Had  money  or  economical  comfort  been  his  chief  ob¬ 
ject,  he  must  have  felt  himself  cruelly  disappointed:  mischance  on  mis¬ 
chance  befell  the  Bamberg  theatre  ;  contradiction  on  the  back  of  contra- 
dictioa  awaited  the  new  Music-director,  whose  life,  for  the  next  seven 
years,  differs  in  no  outward  respect  from  that  of  the  most  unprosperous 
strolling  player.  Nevertheless,  he  made  no  complaint  ;  perhaps  he  really 
felt  little  sorrow.  ‘This  must  do,’  writes  he  in  his  Diary,  ‘  and  it  will 
‘  do ;  for  now  I  shall  never  more  have  a  Relatio  ex  Actis  to  write  while  I 
‘  live,  and  so  the  Fountain  of  all  Evil  is  dried  up  ’  In  a  wealthier  sta¬ 
tion,  he  might  have  composed  more  operas,  and  painted  more  carica¬ 
tures  ;  but  it  is  possible  enough  the  world  might  never  have  heard  of  him 
as  a  writer.  The  fate  of  his  first  two  Novels  had  perhaps  disgusted  him 
with  authorship :  his  studies  at  least  had  long  pointed  to  other  objects  ; 
nor  was  it  choice,  but  necessity,  which  now  led  him  back  to  literature. 
After  many  stagnations,  the  Bamberg  theatrical  cash-box  had  at  length 
become  entirely  insolvent ;  portrait-painting,  and  music-teaching,  were 
inadequate  to  the  support  of  even  a  frugal  household  :  Hoffmann,  who, 
in  all  his  straits,  appears  to  have  disdained  pecuniary  assistance,  now 
wrote  to  Roclilitz  of  Leipzig,  Editor  of  the  Musicalische  Zeitung  (Musi¬ 
cal  Chronicle),  soliciting  employment  in  this  Work,  and,  by  way  of  tes¬ 
timonial,  transmitting  some  of  his  recent  performances.  The  letter  it¬ 
self,  written  with  the  most  fantastic  drollery,  was  testimonial  enough  : 


E.  T.  W.  HOFFMANN. 


121 


Hofmann  was  instantly  and  gladly  accepted  ;  and  in  ten  days,  two  es¬ 
says  were  prepared  and  despatched  ;  the  first  of  a  long  series,  afterwards 
collected,  enlarged,  and  given  to  the  world  under  the  title  of  Fantasies- 
tucke ,  in  Gallons  Manier  (Fantasy-pieces,  in  the  style  of  Callot1),  with  a 
preface  by  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter,  to  whom  Hoffmann  had  paid  a 
visit  while  at  Bamberg. 

The  incipient  author  was  delighted  with  his  new  task  ;  and  Rochlitz 
and  his  readers  no  less  so  with  its  execution.  These  Fantasiestiicke 
turning  chiefly  on  Music,  exclusively  on  Art,  were  afterwards  to  make 
him  known  to  the  world  as  a  brilliant  and  peculiar  writer  ;  and  they 
served  for  the  present  to  augment  his  scanty  funds,  to  bring  him  into 
favour  and  employment  as  a  musical  composer,  and  at  last  to  deliver 
him  from  Bamberg.  In  1813,  by  the  management  of  Rochlitz,  he 
formed  an  engagement  at  Dresden,  again  as  Music  director,  in  the 
theatre  of  one  Seconda  This  appointment  he  hailed  as  a  most  pro¬ 
pitious  change  ;  but  his  theatrical  career  was  not  destined  anywhere  to 
be  smooth.  Misfortunes,  almost  destruction,  overtook  him  even  on  his 
journey:  Seconda  lie  soon  found  to  be  a  driveller  ;  the  opera  shifted 
from  Dresden  to  Leipzig,  and  from  Leipzig  to  Dresden  ;  the  country  was 
full  of  Cossacks  and  Gendarmes ,  and  Hoffmann’s  operatic  melodies  were 
drowned  in  the  loud  clang  of  Napoleon’s  battles.  Till  the  end  of  1814, 
he  led  a  life  more  chequered  by  hard  vicissitudes  than  ever :  now 
quarrelling  with  Seconda,  now  sketching  caricatures  of  the  French”; 
now  writing  Fantasies ,  now  looking  at  Battles  ;  sometimes  sick,  often 
in  danger,  generally  light  of  heart,  and  always  short  of  money.  The 
Golden  Pot ,  one  of  the  Fantasiestiicke ,  which  follows  this  Introduction, 
was  begun  in  Dresden,  shortly  before  the  Battle  of  Leipzig,  while  the 
cannon  of  the  Allies  was  bombarding  the  city  ;  with  grenadoes  bursting 
at  the  writer’s  very  hand,  nay  at  last  driving  him  from  his  garret  into 
some  safer  shelter. 

The  revolution  of  Europe,  which  restored  so  many  sovereigns  to  their 
thrones,  restored  Hoffmann  to  his  chair  of  office.  He  arrived  at  Berlin 
in  September  1814  ;  was  provided  with  employment ;  reinstated  in  his 
former  rights  of  seniority  ;  and  two  years  afterwards  promoted,  in  conse¬ 
quence,  to  be  Rath  in  the  Kammergericht ,  or  Exchequer  Court  of  the 
capital. 

Hoffmann’s  situation,  after  all  his  buffetings,  might  now  be  considered 
enviable  :  the  income  of  his  post  was  amply  sufficient,  and  its  labour 
not  excessive  ;  his  best  friends  were  in  his  neighbourhood,  Hitzig  was 
working  with  him  at  the  same  table ;  his  public  conduct  was  irrepre- 
hensible,  and  his  literary  fame  was  rapidly  spreading.  The  Fantasies- 
tdcke  were  already  universally  popular  ;‘the  Elixiere  dcs  Teufels  (Devil’s 

• 

1  Some  of  my  readers  may  require  to  be  informed  that  Jacques  Callot  was  a  Lorraine 
painter  of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  a  wild  genius,  whose  Temptation  of  St.  Antony  is 
6aid  to  exceed,  in  chaotic  incoherence,  that  of  Teniers  himself. 


122 


APPENDIX, ; 


Elixir,  a  Novel  in  two  volumes,  since  translated  into  English)  had  just 
been  given  to  the  circulating  libraries  ;  and  his  Opera  of  Undine ,  which 
Fouque  had  versified  for  Hoffmann’s  music,  was  brought  out  on  the 
Berlin  stage  with  loud  plaudits,  and  reviewed  with  praises  by  Weber 
himself.  Hoffmann  was  happy  ;  and  had  he  been  wise,  might  still  have 
continued  happy  :  but  he  was  not  wise,  and  in  this  cup  of  joy  there 
lurked  for  him  a  deadly  poison. 

Berlin,  like  most  other  cities,  prides  itself  in  being  somewhat  of  a 
modern  Athens  ;  and  Hoffmann,  the  wonder  of  the  day,  was  invited 
with  the  warmest  blandishments  to  participate  in  its  musical  and  liter¬ 
ary  tea.  But  in  these  polished  circles  Hoffmann  prospered  ill :  he  was 
sharp-tempered  ;  vain,  indeed,  but  transcendently  vain ;  he  required 
the  wittiest  talk  or  the  most  entire  audience  ;  and  had  a  heart-hatred 
to  inanity,  however  gentle/  and  refined.  When  his  company  grew  tire¬ 
some,  he  ‘  made  the  most  terrific  faces  ;  ’  would  answer  the  languishing 
raptures  of  some  perfumed  critic  by  an  observation  on  the  weather  ; 
would  transfix  half  a  dozen  harmless  dilettanti  through  the  vitals,  each 
on  his  seveial  bolt  ;  nay,  in  the  end,  give  vent  to  his  spleen  by  talking 
like  a  sheer  maniac  ;  in  short,  never  cease  till,  one  way  or  other,  the 
hapless  circle  was  reduced  to  utter  desolation.  To  this  intellectual  bev¬ 
erage  he  was  seldom  twice  invited ;  and,  ere  long,  the  musical  and  lit¬ 
erary  Tea  urn  was  for  him  a  closed  fountain. 

Yet  Hoffmann  could  not  do  without  society,  without  excitement,  and 
now  not  well  without  exclusive  admiration.  His  old  friends  he  had 
not  forsaken,  for  he  seldom,  and  with  difficulty,  got  intimate  with  a 
stranger  ;  but  their  quiet  life  could  not  content  him  :  it  was  clear  that 
the  enjoyment  he  sought  was  only  to  be  found  among  gay  laughter-lov¬ 
ing  topers,  as  a  guest  at  their  table,  or  still  better,  as  their  sovereign  in 
the  wine-liouse.  ‘The  order  of  his  life,  from  1816,  downwards,’ says 
his  Biographer,  ‘  was  this  :  On  Mondays  and  Thursdays  he  passed  his 
‘  forenoons  at  his  post  in  the  Kammergericht  ;  on  other  days  at  home, 

‘  in  working  ;  the  afternoons  he  regularly  spent  in  sleep,  to  which,,  in 
‘  summer,  perhaps  lie  added  walking:  the  evenings  and  nights  were  de- 
‘  voted  to  the  tavern.  Even  when  out  in  company,  while  the  other 
‘  guests  went  home,  he  retired  to  the  tavern  to  await  the  morning, 
‘before  which  time  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  bring  him  home.’ 
Strangers  who  came  to  Berlin  went  to  see  him  in  the  tavern ;  the  tavern 
was  his  study,  and  his  pulpit,  and  his  throne  :  here  his  wit  flashed  and 
flamed  like  an  Aurora  Borealis ,  and  the  table  was  forever  in  a  roar  ; 
and  thus,  amid  tobacco  smoke,  and  over  coarse  earthly  liquor,  was 
Hoffmann  wasting  faculties  which  might  have  seasoned  the  nectar  of 
the  gods. 

Poor  Hoffmann  was  on  the  highway  to  ruin  ;  and  the  only  wonder  is, 
that  with  such  fatal  speed,  he  did  not  reach  the  goal  even  more  bale- 
fully  and  sooner.  His  official  duties  were,  to  the  last,  punctually  and 


E.  T.  W.  HOFFMANN. 


123 


irreproachably  performed.  He  wrote  more  abundantly  tlian  ever  ;  no 
Magazine  Editor  was  contented  without  his  contributions  ;  the  Nacht- 
stucke  (Night-pieces)  were  published  in  1817  ;  two  years  afterwards  Klein 
Zaches ,  regarded  (it  would  seem  falsely)  as  a  local  satire ;  and  at  last, 
between  1810  and  1821,  appeared  in  four  successive  volumes,  the  Sera- 
pionsbruder ,  containing  most  of  his  smaller  Tales,  collected  from  various 
fugitive  publications,  and  combined  together  by  dialogues  of  the  Sern- 
pioyi-brethren ,  a  little  club  of  friends,  which  for  some  time  met  weekly 
in  Hoffmann’s  house.  The  Prinzessin  BrambiUa  (1821)  is  properly  an¬ 
other  Fantasy -piece.  The  Lebensaussichten  des  Kater  Murr  (Tom-cat 
Mnrr’s  Philosophy  of  Life)  published  in  1820  and  1821,  was  meant  by 
the  author  as  his  master  work  ;  but  the  third  volume  is  wanting  ;  and 
the  wild  anarchy,  musical  and  moral,  said  to  reign  in  the  first  two,  may 
forever  remain  unreconciled. 

Meanwhile,  Hoffmann’s  tavern-orgies  continued  unabated,  and  his 
health  at  last  sunk  under  them.  In  1819,  he  had  suffered  a  renewed 
attack  of  gout ;  from  which,  however,  he  had  recovered  by  a  journey 
to  the  Silesian  baths.  On  his  forty-fifth  birthday,  the  24tli  of  January 
1822,  he  saw  his  best  and  oldest  friends,  including  Hitzig  and  Bippel, 
assembled  round  his  table  ;  but  he  himself  was  sick  ;  no  longer  hurry¬ 
ing  to  and  fro  in  hospitable  assiduity,  as  was  his  custom,  but  confined 
to  his  chair,  and  drinking  bath-water,  while  his  guests  were  enjoying 
wine.  It  was  his  death  that  lay  upon  him,  and  a  mournful  lingering 
death.  The  disease  was  a  tabes  dorsalis ;  limb  by  limb,  from  his  feet 
upwards,  for  five  months,  his  body  stiffened  and  died.  Hoffmann  bore 
his  sufferings  with  inconceivable  gaiety  ;  so  long  as  his  hands  had  power, 
he  kept  writing ;  afterwards  he  dictated  to  an  amanuensis  ;  and  four  of 
his  Tales,  the  last,  Per  Feind  (The  Enemy),  discontinued  only  some  few 
days  before  his  death,  were  composed  in  this  melancholy  season.  He 
would  not  believe  that  he  was  dying,  and  he  longed  for  life  with  inex¬ 
pressible  desire.  On  the  evening  of  the  24tli  of  June,  his  whole  body 
to  the  neck  had  become  stiff  and  powerless  ;  no  longer  feeling  pain,  he 
said  to  his  Doctor :  “I  shall  soon  be  through  it  now.” — “  Yes,”  said  the 
Doctor,  “you  will  soon  be  through  it.”  Next  morning  he  was  evidently 
dying :  yet  about  eleven  o’clock  he  awoke  from  his  stupor ;  cried  that 
he  was  well,  and  would  go  on  with  dictating  the  Feind  that  night ;  at 
the  same  time  calling  on  his  wife  to  read  him  the  passage  where  he  had 
stopt.  She  spoke  to  him  in  kind  dissuasion:  he  was  silent;  he  mo¬ 
tioned  to  be  turned  towards  the  wall ;  and  scarcely  had  this  been  done, 
when  the  fatal  sound  was  heard  in  his  throat,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
Hoffmann  was  no  more. 

Hoffmann’s  was  a  mind  for  which  proper  culture  might  have  done 
great  things  ;  there  lay  in  it  the  elements  of  much  moral  worth,  and 
talents  of  almost  the  highest  order.  Nor  was  it  weakness  of  Will  that  so 
far  frustrated  these  fine  endowments ;  for  in  many  trying  emergencies, 


124 


APPENDIX. 


lie  proved  that  decision  and  perseverance  of  resolve  were  by  no  means 
denied  hinj.  Unhappily,  however,  he  had  found  no  sure  principle  of 
action  ;  no  Truth  adequate  to  the  guidance  of  such  a  mind.  What  in 
common  minds  is  called  Prudence,  was  not  wanting,  could  this  have 
sufficed ;  for  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  so  long  as  he  was  poor,  so  long  as 
the  fetters  of  everyday  duty  lay  round  him,  Hoffmann  was  diligent,  un¬ 
blamable  and  even  praiseworthy:  but  these  wants  once  supplied,  these 
fetters  once  cast  off,  his  wayward  spirit  was  without  fit  direction  or  re¬ 
straint,  and  its  fine  faculties  rioted  in  wild  disorder.  In  the  practical 
concerns  of  life  he  felt  no  interest :  in  religion  he  seems  not  to  have  be¬ 
lieved,  or  even  disbelieved ;  he  never  talked  of  it,  or  would  hear  it 
talked  of :  to  politics  he  was  equally  hostile,  and  equally  a  stranger. 
Yet  the  wages  of  daily  labour,  the  solace  of  his  five  senses,  and  the  inter¬ 
course  of  social  or  gregarious  life,  were  far  from  completing  his  ideal  of 
enjoyment ;  his  better  soul  languished  in  these  barren  scenes,  and  longed 
for  some  worthier  home.  This  home,  unhappily,  he  was  not  destined 
to  find.  He  sought  for  it  in  the  Poetry  of  Art ;  and  the  aim  of  his  writ¬ 
ings,  so  far  as  tliejr  have  any  aim,  as  they  are  not  mere  interjections,  ex¬ 
pressing  the  casual  moods  of  his  mind,  was  constantly  the  celebration 
and  unfolding  of  this  the  best  and  truest  doctrine  which  he  had  to 
preach.  But  here  too  his  common  failing  seems  to  have  beset  him  :  he 
loved  Art  with  a  deep  but  scarcely  with  a  pure  love ;  not  as  the  foun¬ 
tain  of  Beauty,  but  as  the  fountain  of  refined  Enjoyment ;  he  demanded 
from  it  not  heavenly  peace,  but  earthly  excitement ;  as  indeed  through 
his  whole  life,  he  had  never  learned  the  truth  that  for  human  souls  a 
continuance  of  passive  pleasure  is  inconceivable,  has  not  only  been  de¬ 
nied  us  by  Nature,  but  cannot,  and  could  not  be  granted. 

From  all  this  there  grew  up  in  Hoffmann’s  character  something  player¬ 
like,  something  false,  brawling  and  tawdry,  which  we  trace  both  in  his 
writings  and  his  conduct.  His  philosophy  degenerates  into  levity,  his 
magnanimity  into  bombast :  the  light  of  his  fine  mind  is  not  sunshine, 
but  the  glitter  of  an  artificial  firework.  As  in  Art,  so  in  Life  he  had 
failed  to  discover  that  ‘  agreeable  sensations’  are  not  the  highest  good. 
His  pursuit  of  these  led  him  into  many  devious  courses,  and  the  close 
of  his  mistaken  pilgrimage  was — the  tavern.  ' 

Yet  if,  in  judging  Hoffmann,  we  are  forced  to  condemn  him,  let  it 
be  with  mildness,  with  justice.  Let  us  not  forget,  that  for  a  mind  like 
his,  the  path  of  propriety  was  difficult  to  find,  still  more  difficult  to  keep. 
Moody,  sensitive,  and  fantastic,  he  wandered  through  the  world  like  a 
foreign  presence,  subject  to  influences  of  which  common  natures  have 
happily  no  glimpse.  A  whole  scale  of  the  most  wayward  and  unearthly 
humours  stands  recorded  in  his  Diary  :  his  head  was  forever  swarming 
with  beautiful  or  horrible  chimeras ;  a  common  incident  could  throw 
his  whole  being  into  tumult,  a  distorted  face  or  figure  would  abide  with 
him  for  days,  and  rule  over  him  like  a  spell.  It  was  not  things,  but 


E.  T.  W.  IIOFFMANE 


325 


‘the  shows  of  things,’  that  he  saw  ;  and  the  world  and  its  business,  in 
which  he  had  to  live  and  move,  often  hovered  before  him  like  a  per¬ 
plexed  and  spectral  vision.  Withal  it  should  be  remembered,  that, 
though  never  delivered  from  Self,  he  was  not  cruel  or  unjust,  nor  inca¬ 
pable  of  generous  actions  and  the  deepest  attachment.  His  harshness 
was  often  misinterpreted  ;  for  heat  of  temper  deformed  the  movements 
of  kindness  ;  mockery  also  was  the  dialect  in  which  he  spoke  and  even 
thought,  and  often,  under  a  calm  or  bitter  smile,  he  could  veil  tlie 
wounds  of  a  bleeding  heart.  A  good  or  a  wise  man  we  must  x  not  call 
him:  but  to  others  his  presence  was  beneficent,  his  injuries  were  to 
himself  ;  and  among  the  ordinary  population  of  this  world,  to  note  him 
with  the  mark  of  reprobation  were  ungrateful  and  unjust. 

His  genius  formed  the  most  important  element  of  his  character,  and 
of  course  participated  in  its  faults.  There  are  the  materials  of  a  glorious 
poet,  but  no  poet  has  been  fashioned  out  of  them.  His  mind  was  not 
cultivated  or  brought  under  his  own  dominion  ;  we  admire  the  rich  in¬ 
gredients  of  it,  and  regret  that  they  were  never  purified,  and  fused  into 
a  whole.  His  life  was  disjointed  :  he  had  to  labour  for  his  bread,  and 
he  followed  three  different  arts  ;  what  wonder  that  in  none  of  them  he 
should  attain  perfection  ?  Accordingly,  except  perhaps  as  a  musician, 
the  critics  of  his  country  deny  him  the  name  of  an  Artist :  as  a  poet,  he 
aimed  but  at  popularity,  and  has  attained  little  more.  His  intellect  is 
seldom  strong,  and  that  only  in  glimpses;  his  abundant  humour  is  too 
often  false  and  local  ;  his  rich  and  gorgeous  fancy  is  continually  dis¬ 
torted  into  crotchets  and  caprices.  In  fact,  he  elaborated  nothing  ; 
above  all,  not  himself.  His  knowledge,  except  in  the  sphere  of  Art,  is 
not  extensive  ;  for  an  author,  he  had  read  but  little ;  criticisms,  even 
of  his  own  works,  he  never  looked  into  ;  and  except  Richter,  whom  he 
saw  only  once,  he  seems  never  to  have  met  with  any  individual  whose 
conversation  could  instruct  or  direct  him.  Human  nature  he  had 
studied  only  as  a  caricature-painter  :  men,  it  is  said,  in  fact  interested 
him  chiefly  as  mimetic  objects ;  their  common  doings  and  destiny  were 
without  beauty  for  him,  and  he  observed  and  copied  them  only  in  their 
extravagances  and  ludicrous  distortions.  His  works  were  written  with 
incredible  speed,  and  they  bear  many  marks  of  haste  :  it  is  seldom  that 
any  piece  is  perfected,  that  its  brilliant  and  often  genuine  elements  are 
blended  in  harmonious  union.  On  the  largest  of  his  completed  Novels, 
the  Elixiere  des  Ten f els,  he  himself  set  no  value  ;  and  the  Enter  Murr, 
which  he  meant  for  a  higher  ob’ect,.  he  did  not  live  to  finish,  nor  is  it 
thought  he  could  have  finished  it.  His  smaller  pieces  were  mostly 
written  for  transitory  publications,  and  too  often  .with  only  a  transitory 
excellence.  We  do  not  read  them  without  interest,  without  high  amuse¬ 
ment  ;  but  the  second  reading  pleases  worse  than  the  first :  for  there  is 
too  little  meaning  in  that  bright  extravagance;  it  is  but  the  hurried 
copy  of  the  phantasms  which  forever  masqueraded  through  the  author’s 


126 


APPENDIX. 


mind  ;  it  less  resembles  tlie  creation  of  a  poet,  than  the  dream  of  an 
opium-eater. 

With  these  faults  a  rigorous  criticism  may  charge  Hoffmann  ;  and 
this  the  more  strictly,  the  greater  his  talent,  the  more  undoubted  his 
capability  and  obligation  -to  avoid  them.  At  the  same  time,  to  reject 
his  claim,  as  has  been  done,  to  what  the  poets  call  their  immortality, 
seems  hard  measure.  If  Callot  and  Teniers,  his  models,  still  figure  in 
picture-galleries  ;  if  Rabelais  continues,  after  centuries,  to  be  read,  and 
even  the  Caliph  Vathek ,  after  decades,  still  finds  admirers,  the  products 
of  a  mind  so  brilliant,  wild  and  singular  as  that  of  Hoffmann  may  long 
hover  in  the  remembrance  of  the  world  ;  as  objects  of  curiosity,  of  cen¬ 
sure,  and,  on  the  whole,  compared  with  absolute  Nonentity,  of  enter¬ 
tainment,  and  partial  approval.  For  the  present,  at  least,  as  a  child  of 
his  time  and  his  country,  he  is  not  to  be  overlooked  in  any  survey  of 
German  Literature,  and  least  of  all  by  the  foreign  student  of  it. 

Among  Hoffmann’s  shorter  performances,  I  find  Meister  Martin  noted 
by  his  critics  as  the  most  perfect :  it  is  a  story  of  ancient  Ntirnberg,  and 
worked  up  in  a  style  which  even  reminds  us  of  the  Author  of  Waver- 
ley.  Nevertheless,  I  have  selected  this  Ooldne  Topf,x  as  likelier  to  in¬ 
terest  the  English  reader :  it  has  more  of  the  faults,  but  also  more  of 
the  excellences  peculiar  to  its  author,  and  exhibits  a  much  truer  pict¬ 
ure  of  his  individuality.  To  recommend  it,  criticisms  would  be  un¬ 
availing  :  there  is  no  deep  art  involved  in  its  composition  ;  to  minds 
alive  to  the  graces  of  Fancy,  and  disposed  to  pardon  even  its  aberra¬ 
tions  when  splendid  and  kindly,  this  Mdhrchen  will  speak  its  whole 
meaning  for  itself  ;  and  to  others  it  has  little  or  nothing  to  say.  The 
most  tolerant  will  see  in  it  much  to  pardon,  but  even  under  its  present 
disadvantages  they  may  perhaps  recognise  in  it  the  erratic  footsteps  of 
a  poet,  and  lament  with  me  that  his  course  has  ended  so  far  short  of 
the  goal. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter,  one  of  the  chosen  men  of  Ger¬ 
many  and  of  the  World,  whom  I  hoped,  in  my  vanity,  perhaps  to 
gratify  by  this  introduction  of  him  to  a  people  whom  he  knew  and 
valued,  has  been  called  from  his  earthly  sojourn  since  the  commence¬ 
ment  of  my  little  task,  and  no  voice,  either  of  love  or  censure,  shall 
any  more  reach  liis  ear. 

The  circle  of  his  existence  is  thus  complete  :  his  works  and  him¬ 
self  have  assumed  their  final  shape  and  combination,  and  lie  /eady 
for  a  judgment,  which,  when  it  is  just,  must  now  be  unalterable. 
To  satisfy  a  natural  and  rational  curiosity  respecting  such  a  character, 

1  Golden  Pot ,  our  only  Translation  from  Hoffmann. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIED  RICH  RICHTER.  127 

materials  are  not  wanting  ;  but  to  us  in  the  mean  time  they  are  inacces¬ 
sible.  I  have  inquired  in  his  own  country,  but  without  effect  ;  having 
learned  only  that  two  Biographies  of  Richter  are  in  the  press,  but 
that  nothing  on  the  subject  has  hitherto  been  published.  For  the 
present,  therefore,  I  must  content  myself  with  sucli  meagre  and  transi¬ 
tory  hints  as  were  in  circulation  in  his  lifetime,  and  compress  into  a  few 
sentences  a  history  which  might  be  written  in  volumes. 

Richter  was  born  at  Wunsiedel  in  Bayreuth,  on  the  21st  of  March 
1703.  His  father  was  clergyman  of  the  place,  and  afterwards  of 
Schwarzbach  on  the  Saale.  The  young  man  also  was  destined  for  the 
clerical  profession  ;  with  a  view  to  which,  having  finished  his  school- 
studies  in  the  Hof  Gymnasium,  he  in  1780  proceeded  to  the  University 
of  Leipzig,  with  the  highest  testimonials  from  his  former  masters. 
Theology  as  a  profession,  however,  he  could  not  relish  ;  poetry,  philoso¬ 
phy  and  general  literature,  were  his  chief  pursuits  while  at  Leipzig  ; 
from  which,  apparently  after  no  long  stay,  he  returned  to  Schwarzbach 
to  his  parents,  uncertain  what  he  should  betake  him  to.  In  a  little 
while,  he  attempted  authorship;  publishing  various  short  miscellaneous 
pieces,  distinguished  by  intellectual  vigour,  copious  fancy,  the  wildest 
yet  truest  humour,  the  whole  concocted  in  a  style  entirely  his  own, 
which,  if  it  betrayed  the  writer’s  inexperience,  could  not  hide  the  ex¬ 
istence  in  him  of  a  highly-gifted,  strong  and  extraordinary  mind.  The 
reception  of  his  first  performances,  or  the  inward  felicity  of  writing,  en¬ 
couraged  him  to  proceed:  in  the  midst  of  an  unsettled  and  changeful 
life,  his  pen  was  never  idle,  its  productions  never  otherwise  than  new, 
fantastic  and  powerful:  he  lived  successively  in  Hof,  in  Weimar,  Ber¬ 
lin,  Meiningen,  Coburg,  ‘  raying  forth,  wherever  he  might  be  stationed, 
the  wild  light  of  his  genius  over  all  Germany.’  At  last  he  settled  in 
Bayreuth,  having  here,  in  testimony  of  his  literary  merit,  been  hon¬ 
oured  with  the  title  of  Legations-Rath,  and  presented  with  a  pension 
from  his  native  Prince.  In  Bayreuth  his  chief  works  were  written  ;  he 
had  married,  and  been  blessed  with  two  children  ;  his  intellectual  la¬ 
bours  had  gained  him  esteem  and  love  from  all  ranks  of  his  country¬ 
men,  and  chiefly  from  those  whose  suffrage  was  of  most  value  ;  a  frank 
and  original,  yet  modest,  good  and  kind  deportment,  seems  to  have 
transferred  these  sentiments  to  his  private  circle  :  with  a  heart  at 
once  of  the  most  earnest  and  most  sportful  cast  ;  affectionate,  and 
encompassed  with  the  objects  of  his  affection  ;  diligent  in  the  highest 
of  all  earthly  tasks,  the  acquisition  and  the  diffusion  of  Truth  ;  and 
witnessing  from  his  sequestered  home  the  working  of  his  own  mind  on 
thousands  of  fellow-minds,  Richter  seemed  happy  and  at  peace  ;  and 
his  distant  reader  loved  to  fancy  him  as  in  his  calm  privacy  enjoying 
the  fruit  of  past  toils,  or  amid  the  highest  and  mildest  meditations, 
looking  forward  to  long  honourable  years  of  future  toil.  For  his 
thoughts  were  manifold  ;  thoughts  of  a  moralist  and  a  sage,  no  less  than 


128 


APPENDIX. 


of  a  poet  and  a  wit.  The  last  work  of  liis  I  saw  advertised,  was  a  little 
volume  entitled,  On  the  Ever-green  of  our  Feelings  ;  and  in  November 
(1825),  news  came  that  Richter  was  dead ;  and  a  heart,  which  we  had 
figured  as  one  of  the  truest,  deepest  and  gentlest  that  ever  lived  in  this 
world,  was  to  beat  no  more. 

Of  Richter’s  private  character  I  have  learned  little  ;  but  that  little 
was  all  favourable,  and  accordant  with  the  indications  in  his  works 
Of  his  public  and  intellectual  character  much  might  be  said  and 
thought  ;  for  the  secret  of  it  is  by  no  means  floating  on  the  surface,  and 
it  will  reward  some  study.  The  most  cursory  inspection,  even  an  ex¬ 
ternal  one,  will  satisfy  us  that  he  neither  was,  nor  wished  to  be  con¬ 
sidered  as,  a  man  who  wrote  or  thought  in  the  track  of  other  men,  to 
whom  common  practice  is  a  law,  and  whose  excellences  and  defects 
the  common  formulas  of  criticism  will  easily  represent.  The  very 
titles  of  his  works  are  startling.  One  of  his  earliest  performances  is 
named  Selection  from  the  Papers  of  the  Devil ;  another  is  Biographical 
Recreations  under  the  Cranium  of  a  Giantess.  His  novels  are  almost  uni¬ 
formly  introduced  by  some  fantastic  narrative  accounting  for  his  publi¬ 
cation  and  obtainment  of  the  story.  Hesperus ,  his  chief  novel,  bears 
the  secondary  title  of  a  Dog  post-days,  and  the  chapters  are  named 
Dog-posts ,  as  having  been  conveyed  to  him  in  a  letter-bag,  round  the 
neck  of  a  little  nimble  Shock  from  some  unknown  Island  in  the  South 
sea. 

The  first  aspect  of  these  peculiarities  cannot  prepossess  us  in  his 
favour  ;  we  are  too  forcibly  reminded  of  theatrical  clap-traps  and  liter¬ 
ary  quackery  ;  nor  on  opening  one  of  the  works  themselves  is  the  case 
much  mended.  Piercing  gleams  of  thought  do  not  escape  us  ;  singular 
truths  conveyed  in  a  form  as  singular  ;  grotesque  and  often  truly  ludi¬ 
crous  delineations  ;  pathetic,  magnificent,  far-sounding  passages  ;  effu¬ 
sions  full  of  wit,  knowledge  and  imagination,  but  difficult  to  bring  under 
any  rubric  whatever  ;  all  the  elements,  in  short,  of  a  glorious  intellect, 
but  dashed  together  in  such  wild  arrangement,  that  their  order  seems 
the  very  ideal  of  confusion.  The  style  and  structure  of  the  book  appear 
alike  incomprehensible.  The  narrative  is  every  now  and  then  suspended 
to  make  way  for  some  “  Extra  leaf,”  some  wild  digression  upon  any 
subject  but  the  one  in  hand  ;  the  language  groans  with  indescribable 
metaphors  and  allusions  to  all  things  human  and  divine  ;  flowing  onward, 
not  like  a  river,  but  like  an  inudation  ;  circling  in  complex  eddies, 
chafing  and  gurgling  now  this  way, -now  that,  till  the  proper  current 
sinks  out  of  view  amid  the  boundless  uproar.  We  close  the  work  with 
a  mingled  feeling  of  astonishment,  oppression  and  perplexity  ;  and 
Richter  stands  before  us  in  brilliant  cloudy  vagueness,  a  giant  mass  of 
intellect,  but  without  form,  beauty  or  intelligible  purpose. 

To  readers  who  believe  that  intrinsic  is  inseparable  from  superficial 
excellence,  and  that  nothing  can  be  good  or  beautiful  which  is  not  to  be 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


129 


seen  through  in  a  moment,  Richter  can  occasion  little  difficulty.  They 
admit  him  to  be  a  man  of  vast  natural  endowments,  hut  he  is  utterly 
uncultivated,  and  without  command  of  them  ;  full  of  monstrous  affecta¬ 
tion,  the  very  High  Priest  of  bad  taste :  knows  not  the  art  of  writing, 
scarcely  that  there  is  such  an  art  ;  an  insane  visionary  floating  forever 
among  baseless  dreams,  which  hide  the  firm  Earth  from  his  view  ;  an 
intellectual  Polyphemus  ;  in  short,  a  monstrum  horrendum ,  informe ,  in- 
gens  (carefully  adding)  cui  lumen  ademptum  ;  and  they  close  their  ver¬ 
dict  reflectively,  with  his  own  praiseworthy  maxim  :  “Providence  has 
given  to  the  English  the  empire  of  the  sea,  to  the  French  that  of  the 
land,  to  the  Germans  that  of — the  air.” 

In  this  way  the  matter  is  adjusted;  briefly,  comfortably  and  wrong. 
The  casket  was  difficult  to  open  ;  did  we  know  by  its  very  shape  that 
there  was  nothing  in  it,  that  so  we  should  cast  it  into  the  sea  ?  Affecta¬ 
tion  is  often  singularity,  but  singularity  is  not  always  affectation.  If  the 
nature  and  condition  of  a  man  be  really  and  truly,  not  conceitedly  and 
untruly,  singular,  so  also  will  his  manner  be,  so  also  ought  it  to  be. 
Affectation  is  the  product  of  Falsehood,  a  heavy  sin,  and  the  parent  of 
numerous  heavy  sins  ;  let  it  be  severely  punished,  but  not  too  lightly 
imputed.  Scarcely  any  mortal  is  absolutely  free  from  it,  neither  most 
probably  is  Richter  ;  but  it  is  in  minds  of  another  substance  than  his 
that  it  grows  to  be  the  ruling  product.  Moreover,  he  is  actually  not  a 
visionary  ;  but,  with  all  his  visions,  will  be  found  to  see  the  firm  Earth 
in  its  whole  figures  and  relations  much  more  clearly  than  thousands  of 
such  critics,  who  too  probably  can  see  nothing  else.  Far  from  being 
untrained  or  uncultivated,  it  will  surprise  these  persons  to  discover  that 
few  men  have  studied  the  art  of  writing,  and  many  other  arts  besides, 
more  carefully  than  he  ;  that  liis  Yorschule  dev  lEsthetil  (Introduction  to 
Esthetics)  abounds  with  deep  and  sound  maxims  of  criticism  ;  in  the 
course  of  which,  many  complex  works,  his  own  among  others,  are  rigidly 
and  justly  tried,  and  even  the  graces  and  minutest  qualities  of  style  are 
by  no  means  overlooked  or  unwisely  handled. 

Withal,  there  is  something  in  Richter  that  incites  us  to  a  second,  to  a 
third  perusal.  His  works  are  hard  to  understand,  but  they  always  have 
a  meaning,  and  often  a  true  and  deep  one.  In  our  closer,  more  compre¬ 
hensive  glance,  their  truth  steps  forth  with  new  distinctness,  their  error 
dissipates  and  recedes,  passes  into  venality,  often  even  into  beauty  ;  and 
at  last  the  thick  haze  which  encircled  the  form  of  the  writer  melts  away, 
and  he  stands  revealed  to  us  in  his  own  stedfast  features,  a  colossal 
spirit,  a  lofty  and  original  thinker,  a  genuine  poet,  a  high-minded,  true 
and  most  amiable  man. 

I  have  called  him  a  colossal  spirit,  for  this  impression  continues  with 
us :  to  the  last  we  figure  him  as  something  gigantic  ;  for  all  the  elements 
of  his  structure  are  vast,  and  combined  together  in  living  and  life-giv¬ 
ing,  rather  than  in  beautiful  or  symmetrica!  order.  His  Intellect  is 
9 


130 


APPENDIX. 


keen,  impetuous,  far-grasping,  fit  to  rend  in  pieces  the  stubbornest  ma¬ 
terials,  and  extort  from  them  their  most  hidden  and  refractory  truth. 
In  his  Humour  he  sports  with  the  highest  and  the  lowest,  he  can  play 
at  bowls  with  the  sun  and  moon.  His  Imagination  opens  for  us  the 
Land  of  Dreams  ;  we  sail  with  him  through  the  boundless  abyss,  and  the 
secrets  of  Space,  and  Time,  and  Life,  and  Annihilation,  hover  round  us 
in  dim  cloudy  forms,  and  darkness,  and  immensity,,  and  dread,  encom¬ 
pass  and  overshadow  us.  Nav,  in  handling  the  smallest  matter,  he 
works  it  with  the  tools  of  a  giant.  A  common  truth  is  wrenched  from 
its  old  combinations,  and  presented  us  in  new,  impassable,  abysmal 
contrast  with  its  opposite  error.  A  trifle,  some  slender  character,  some 
weakling  humorist,  some  jest,  or  quip,  or  spiritual  toy,  is  shaped  into 
most  quaint,  yet  often  truly  living  form but  shaped  somehow  as  with 
the  hammer  of  Vulcan,  with  three  strokes  that  might  have  helped  to 
forge  an  iEgis.  The  treasures  of  his  mind  are  of  a  similar  description 
with  the  mind  itself ;  his  knowledge  is  gathered  from  all  the  kingdoms  of 
Art,  and  Science,  and  Nature,  and  lies  round  him  in  huge  unwieldy 
heaps.  His  very  language  is  Titanian  ;  deep,  strong,  tumultuous,  shin¬ 
ing  with  a  thousand  hues,  fused  from  a  thousand  elements,  and  winding 
in  labyrintliic  mazes. 

Among  Richter’s  gifts,  perhaps  the  first  that  strikes  us  as  truly  gtreat 
is  his  Imagination  ;  for  he  loves  to  dwell  in  the  loftiest  and  most  solemn 
provinces  of  thought ;  his  works  abound  with  mysterious  allegories,  vis¬ 
ions  and  t}7pical  adumbrations  ;  his  Dreams,  in  particular,  have  a  gloomy 
vastness,  broken  here  and  there  by  wild  far-darting  splendour,  and 
shadowy  forms  of  meaning  rise  dimly  from  the  bosom  of  the  void  Infi¬ 
nite.  Yet,  if  I  mistake  not,  Humour  is  his”  ruling  quality,  the  quality 
which  lives  most  deeply  in  his  inward  nature,  and  most  strongly  influ¬ 
ences  his  manner  of  being.  In  this  rare  gift,  for  none  is  rarer  than 
true  humour,  he  stands  unrivalled  in  his  own  country  ;  and  among  late 
writers,  in  every  other.  To  describe  humour  is  difficult  at  all  times, 
and  would  perhaps  be  still  more  difficult  in  Richter’s  case.  ■*  Like  all 
his  other  qualities,  it  is  vast,  rude,  irregular  ;  often  perhaps  overstrained 
and  extravagant :  yet  fundamentally  it  is  genuine  humour,  the  humour 
of  Cervantes  and  Sterne,  the  product  not  of  Contempt  but  of  Love,  not 
-of  superficial  distortion  of  natural  forms,  but  of  deep  though  playful 
sympathy  with  all  forms  of  Nature.  It  springs  not  less  from  the  heart 
than  from  the  head  ;  it's  result  is  not  laiighter,  but  something  far 
kindlier  and  better  ;  as  it  were,  the  balm  which  a  generous  spirit  pours 
over  the  wounds  or  life,  and  which  none  but  a  generous  spirit  can  give 
forth.  Such  humour  is  compatible  with  tenderest  and  sublimest  feel¬ 
ings,  or  rather,  it  is  incompatible  with  the  want  of  them.  In  Richter, 
accordingly,  we  find  a  true  sensibility  ;  a  softness,  sometimes  a  simple 
humble  pathos,  which  works  its  way  into  every  heart.  Some  slight 
incident  is  carelessly  thrown  before  us :  we  smile  at  it  perhaps,  but 


JEAN  PA  UL  FRIED  R  ICH  RICHTER. 


131 


with  a  smile  more  sad  than  tears  ;  and  the  unpretending  passage 
in  its  meagre  brevity  sinks  deeper  into  the  soul  than  sentimental 
volumes. 

It  is  on  the  strength  of  this  and  its  accompanying  endowments,  that 
his  main  success  as  an  artist  depends.  His  favourite  characters  have  al¬ 
ways  a  dash  of  the  ridiculous  in  their  circumstances  or  their  composi¬ 
tion,  perhaps  in  both  :  they  are  often  men  of  no  account  ;  vain,  poor, 
ignorant,  feeble  ;  and  we  scarcely  know  how  it  is  that  we  love  them  ; 
for  the  author  all  along  has  been  laughing  no  less  heartily  than  we  at 
their  ineptitudes ;  yet  so  it  is,  his  Fibel,  his  Fixlein,  his  Siebenkas,, 
even  his  Schmelzle,  insinuate  themselves  into  our  affections  ;  and  their 
ultimate  place  is  closer  to  our  hearts  than  that  of  many  more  splendid 
heroes.  This  is  the  test  of  true  humour  ;  no  wit,  no  sarcasm,  no  knowl¬ 
edge  will  suffice  ;  not  talent  but  genius  will  accomplish  the  result.  It 
is  in  studying  these  characters  that  we  first  convince  ourselves  of  Rich¬ 
ter’s  claim  to  the  title  of  a  poet,  of  a  true  creator.  For  with  all  his  wild 
vagueness,  this  highest  intellectual  honour  cannot  be  refused  him. 
The  figures  and  scenes  which  he  lays  before  us,  distorted,  entangled, 
indescribable  as  they  seem,  have  a  true  poetic  existence  ;  for  we  not 
only  hear  them,  but  we  see  them,  afar  off,  by  the  wondrous  light,  which 
none  but  the  Poet,  in  the  strictest  meaning  of  that  word,  can  shed  over 
them. 

So  long  as  humour  will  avail  him,  his  management  even  of  higher  and 
stronger  characters  may  still  be  pronounced  successful  ;  but,  whenever 
humour  ceases  to  be  applicable,  his  success  is  more  or  less  imperfect. 
In  the  treatment  of  heroes  proper  he  is  seldom  completely  happy.  They 
shoot  into  rugged  exaggeration  in  his  hands,  their  sensibility  becomes 
too  copious  and  tearful,  their  magnanimity  too  fierce,  abrupt  and  thor¬ 
ough-going.  In  some  few  instances,  they  verge  towards  absolute  fail¬ 
ure  :  compared  with  their  less  ambitious  brethren,  they  are  almost  of  a 
vulgar  cast ;  with  all  their  brilliancy  and  vigour,  too  like  that  positive, 
determinate,  choleric,  volcanic  class  of  personages  whom  we  meet  with 
so  frequently  in  novels  ;  they  call  themselves  Men,  and  do  their  utmost 
to  prove  the  assertion,  but  they  cannot  make  us  believe  it  ;  for  after  all 
their  vapouring  and  storming  we  see  well  enough  that  they  are  but  En¬ 
gines,  with  no  more  life  than  the  Freethinkers’  model  in  Martinus  Scrib- 
lerus ,  the  Nuremberg  Man,  who  operated  by  a  combination  of  pipes  and 
levers,  and  though  he  could  breathe  and  digest  perfectly,  and  even  rea¬ 
son  as  well  as  most  country  parsons,  was  made  of  wood  and  leather.  In 
the  general  conduct  of  such  histories  and  delineations,  Richter  seldom 
appears  to  advantage  :  the  incidents  are  often  startling  and  extravagant ; 
the  whole  structure  of  the  story  has  a  rugged,  broken,  huge,  artificial 
aspect,  and  will  not  assume  the  air  of  truth.  Yet  its  chasms  are  strangely 
filled  up  with  the  costliest  materials  ;  a  world,  a  Tiniverse  of  wit  and 
knowledge  and  fancy  and  imagination  has  sent  its  fairest  products  to 


132 


APPENDIX. 


adorn  the  edifice  ;  the  rude  and  rent  cyclopean  walls  are  resplendent 
with  jewels  and  beaten  gold  ;  rich  stately  foliage  screens  it,  the  balmiest 
odours  encircle  it  ;  we  stand  astonished  if  not  captivated,  delighted  if 
not  charmed  by  the  artist  and  his  art. 

By  a  critic  of  his  own  country,  Richter  has  been  named  a  Western 
Oriental,  an  epithet  which  Goethe  himself  is  at  the  pains  to  reproduce 
and  illustrate  in  his  West-ostlichter  Divan.  The  mildness,  the  warm  all- 
comprehending  love  attributed  to  Oriental  poets,  may  in  fact  be  discov¬ 
ered  in  Richter  ;  not  less  their  fantastic  exaggeration,  their  brilliant  ex¬ 
travagance  ;  above  all,  their  overflowing  abundance,  their  lyrical 
diffuseness,  as  if  writing  for  readers  who  were  altogether  passive,  to 
whom  no  sentiment  could  be  intelligible  unless  it  were  expounded  and 
dissected,  and  presented  under  all  its  thousand  aspects.  In  this  last 
point,  Richter  is  too  much  an  Oriental :  his  passionate  outpourings  would 
often  be  more  effective  were  they  far  briefer.  Withal,  however,  he  is 
a  Western  Oriental :  he  lives  in  the  midst  of  cultivated  Europe  in  the 
nineteenth  century  ;  he  has  looked  with  a  patient  and  piercing  eye  on  its 
motley  aspect  ;  and  it  is  this  Europe,  it  is  the  changes  of  its  many-col¬ 
oured  life,  that  are  held  up  to  us  in  his  works.  His  subject  is  Life  ;  his 
chosen  study  has  been  Man.  Few  have  known  the  world  better,  or 
taken  at  once  a  clearer  and  a  kindlier  view  of  its  concerns.  For  Rich¬ 
ter’s  mind  is  at  peace  with  itself:  a  mild,  humane,  beneficent  spirit 
breathes  through  his  works.  His  very  contempt,  of  which  he  is  by  no 
means  incapable  or  sparing,  is  placid  and  tolerant ;  his  affection  is  warm, 
tender,  comprehensive,  not  dwelling  among  the  high  places  of  the  world, 
not  blind  to  its  objects  when  found  among  the  poor  and  lowly.  Nature 
in  all  her  scenes  and  manifestations  he  loves  with  a  deep,  almost  pas¬ 
sionate  love  ;  from  the  solemn  phases  of  the  starry  heaven  to  the  simple 
floweret  of  the  meadow,  his  eye  and  his  heart  are  open  for  her  charms 
and  her  mystic  meanings.  From  early  years,  he  tells  us,  he  may  be 
said  to  have  almost  lived  under  the  open  sky  :  here  he  could  recreate 
himself,  here  he  studied,  here  he  often  wrote.  It  is  not  with  the  feel¬ 
ing  of  a  mere  painter  and  view-liunter  that  he  looks  on  Nature  :  but  he 
dwells  amid  her  beauties  and  solemnities  as  in  the  mansion  of  a  Mother  ; 
he  finds  peace  in  her  majestic  peace  ;  he  worships,  in  this  boundless 
Temple,  the  great  original  of  Peace,  to  whom  the  earth  and  the  fulness 
thereof  belongs.  For  Richter  does  not  hide  from  us  that  he  looks  to 
the  Maker  of  the  Universe  as  to  his  Father  ;  that  in  his  belief  of  man’s 
Immortality  lies  the  sanctuary  of  his  spirit,  the  solace  of  all  suffering, 
the  solution  of  all  that  is  mysterious  in  human  destiny.  The  wild  free¬ 
dom  with  which  he  treats  the  dogmas  of  religion  must  not  mislead  us  to 
suppose  that  he  himself  is  irreligious  or  unbelieving.  It  is  Religion,  it  is 
Belief,  in  whatever  dogmas  expressed,  or  whether  expressed  in  any,  that 
has  reconciled  for  him  the  contradictions  of  existence,  that  has  over¬ 
spread  his  path  with  light,  and  chastened  the  fiery  elements  of  his 


JEAN  PA  UL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


133 


spirit  by  mingling  with  them  Mercy  and  Humility.  To  many  of  my 
readers  it  may  be  surprising,  that  in  this  respect  Richter  is  almost  soli¬ 
tary  among  the  great  minds  of  his  country.  These  men  too,  with  few 
exceptions,  seem  to  have  arrived  at  spiritual  peace,  at  full  harmonious 
development  of  being  ;  but  tlieir  path  to  it  has  been  different.  In 
Richter  alone,  among  the  great  (and  even  sometimes  truly  moral)  writ-' 
ers  of  his  day,1  do  we  find  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul  expressly  in¬ 
sisted  on,  nay  so  much  as  incidentally  alluded  to.  This  is  a  fact  well 
meriting  investigation  and  reflection,  but  here  is  not  the  place  for  treat¬ 
ing  it. 

Of  Richter's  Works  I  have  left  myself  no  room  for  speaking  individ¬ 
ually  ;  nor,  except  with  large  details,  could  the  criticism  of  them  be  at¬ 
tempted  with  any  profit.  His  Novels,  published  in  what  order  I  have 
not  accurately  learned,  are  the  Unsiehtbare  Loge  (Invisible  Lodge)  ; 
Flegdjahre  (Wild  Oats)  ;  Leben  Fibels ,  Verfassers  der  Beinrodischen  Fibel 
(Life  of  Fibel ;  or  to  translate  the  spirit  of  it  :  Life  of  Primer,  Author 
of  the  Clirist-cliurch  Primer)  ;  Leben  des  Quintus  Fixlein,  and  Schmelzle's 
Reise,  here  presented  to  the  English  reader  ;  Katzenberger's  Bader  else, 
and  the  Jubelsenior  ;  with  two  of  much  larger  and  more  ambitious 
structure,  Hesperus  and  Titan,  each  of  which  I  have  in  its  turn  seen 
rated  as  his  masterpiece  :  the  former  only  is  known  to  me.  His  work 
on  Criticism  has  been  mentioned  already  :  he  has  also  written  on  Edu¬ 
cation,  a  volume  named  Lemna ;  the  Campanerthal  (Campanian  Yale) 
I  understand  to  turn  upon  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul.  His  miscella¬ 
neous  and  fugitive  writings  were  long  to  enumerate.  Essays,  fantasies, 
apologues,  dreams,  have  appeared  in  various  periodicals  :  the  best  of 
these  performances,  collected  and  revised  by  himself,  were  published 
some  years  ago  under  the  title  of  Herbst-Blumine  (Autumnal  Flora). 
There  is  also  a  Chrestomathie  (what  we  should  call  Beauties)  of  Richter, 
in  four  volumes. 

To  characterise  these  works  would  be  difficult  after  the  fullest  in¬ 
spection  :  to  describe  them  to  English  readers  would  be  next  to  impos¬ 
sible.  Whether  poetical,  philosophical,  didactic,  or  fantastic,  they 
seem  all  to  be  emblems,  more  or  less  complete,  of  the  singular  mind 
where  they  originated.  As*  a  whole,  the  first  perusal  of  them,  more 
particularly  to  a  foreigner,  is  almost  infallibly  offensive  ;  and  neither 
their  meaning,  nor  their  no-meaning,  is  to  be  discerned  without  long 
and  sedulous  study.  They  are  a  tropical  wilderness,  full  of  endless 
tortuosities ;  but  with  the  fairest  flowers,  and  the  coolest  fountains ; 
now  overarching  us  with  high  umbrageous  gloom,  now  opening  in 

1  The  two  venerable  Jacobis  belong,  in  character,  if  scarcely  in  date,  to  an  older  school ; 
so  also  does  Herder,  from  whom  Itichter  learned  much,  both  morally  and  intellectually, 
and  whom  he  seems  to  have  loved  and  reverenced  beyond  any  other.  Wieland  is  intelligi¬ 
ble  enough  ;  a  sceptic  in  the  style  of  Bolingbroke  and  Shaftesbury,  what  we  call  a  French, 
or  Scotch  sceptic,  a  rather  shallow  species.  Lessing  also  is  a  sceptic,  but  of  a  much  no¬ 
bler  sort ;  a  doubter  who  deser  ved  to  believe. 


134 


APPENDIX. 


long  gorgeous  vistas.  We  wander  tlirougli  them  enjoying  their  wild 
grandeur  ;  and  by  degrees,  our  half-contemptuous  wonder  at  the  Au¬ 
thor  passes  into  reverence  and  love.  His  face  was  long  hid  from  us  : 
hut  we  see  him  at  length,  in  the  firm  shape  of  spiritual  manhood  ;  a 
vast  and  most  singular  nature,  but  vindicating  his  singular  nature  by 
the  force,  the  beauty  and  benignity  which  pervade  it.  In  fine,  we  joy¬ 
fully  accept  him  for  what  he  is,  and  was  meant  to  be.  The  graces,  the 
polish,  the  sprightly  elegancies  which  belong  to  men  of  lighter  make, 
we  cannot  look  for  or  demand  from  him.  His  movement  is  essentially 
slow  and  cumbrous,  for  he  advances  not  with  one  faculty,  but  with  a 
whole  mind;  with  intellect,  and  pathos,  and  wit,  and  humour,  and 
imagination,  moving  onward  like  a  mighty  host,  motley,  ponderous, 
irregular  and  irresistible.  He  is  not  airy,  sparkling  and  precise  ;  but 
deep,  billowy  and  vast.  The  melody  of  his  nature  is  not  expressed  in 
common  note-marks,  or  written  down  by  the  critical  gamut ;  for  it  is 
wild,  and  manifold;  its  voice  is  like  the  voice  of  cataracts  and  the  sound¬ 
ing  of  primeval  forests.  To  feeble  ears  it  is  discord,  but  to  ears  that 
understand  it  deep  majestic  music. 

In  his  own  country,  we  are  told,1  “  Richter  has  been  in  fashion,  then 
out,of  fashion,  then  in  it  again  ;  till  at  last  he  has  been  raised  far  above 
all  fashion,”  which  indeed  is  his  proper  place.  What  his  fate  will  be 
in  England  is  now  to  be  decided.  Could  much-respected  counsels  from 
admirers  of  Richter  have  availed  with  me,  he  had  not  at  present  been 
put  upon  his  trial.  Predictions  are  unanimous  that  here  he  will  be 
condemned  or  even  neglected.  Of  my  countrymen,  in  this  small  in¬ 
stance,  I  have  ventured  to  think  otherwise.  To  those,  it  is  true,  “  the 
SDace  of  whose  Heaven  does  not  extend  more  than  three  ells,”  and  who 
understand  and  perceive  that  with  these  three  ells  the  Canopy  of  the 
Universe  terminates,  Richter  will  justly  enough  appear  a  monster, 
from  without  the  verge  of  warm  three-ell  Creation  ;  and  their  duty, 
with  regard  to  him,  will  limit  itself  to  chasing  him  forth  of  the  habit¬ 
able  World,  back  again  into  his  native  Chaos.  If  we  judge  of  works 
of  art,  as  the  French  do  of  language,  with  a  Ceia  ne  se  dit  pas,  Richter 
will  not  escape  his  doom  ;  for  it  is  too  true  that  he  respects  not  the  maj¬ 
esty  of  Use  and  Wont,  and  has  said  and  thought  much  which  is  by  no 
means  usually  said  and  thought.  In  England,  however,  such  prin¬ 
ciples  of  literary  jurisprudence  are  rarer.  To  many,  I  may  hope,  even 

1  Franz  Horn’s  Poesie  unci  Beredsamlceit  der  Deutschen  (Poetry  and  Eloquence  of  the 
Germans,  from  Luther's  time  to  the  present)  ;  a  work  which  I  am  bound  to  recommend 
to  all  students  of  German  literature,  as  a  valuable  guide  and  indicator.  Bating  a  certain 
not  altogether  erroneous  sectarianism  in  regard  to  religion  ;  and  a  certain  janty  priggish¬ 
ness  of  style,  nay,  it  must  be  owned,  a  corresponding  priggishness  of  character,  they  will 
find  in  Horn  a  lively,  fair,  well  read,  and  on  the  whole  interesting  and  instructive  critic. 
The  work  is  in  three  volumes  ;  to  which  a  prior  publication,  entitled  Umriase  (Outlines), 
forms  a  fourth  ;  bringing  down  the  History,  or  rather  Sketch,  to  the  borders  of  the  year 
1819. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


135 


this  dim  glimpse  of  a  spirit  like  Richter’s  will  be  gratifying;  and. if 
it  can  hardly  be  expected  that  their  first  judgment  of  him  will  be 
favourable,  curiosity  may  be  awakened,  and  a  second  and  a  truer  judg¬ 
ment,  on  ampler  grounds  and  maturer  reflection,  may  follow.  His 
larger  works  must  ultimately  become  known  to  us  ;  they  deserve  it 
better  than  thousands  which  have  had  that  honour. 

Of  the  two  Works  here  offered  to  the  reader,  little  special  explana¬ 
tion  is  required.  Sehmelzle's  Journey  I  have  not  found  noticed  by  any 
of  his  German  critics  ;  and  must  give  it  on  my  own  responsibility,  as 
one  of  the  most  finished,  as  it  is  at  least  one  of  the  simplest,  among  his 
smaller  humorous  performances.  The  Life  of  Fixlein ,  no  stepchild  in 
its  own  country,  seems  nevertheless  a  much  more  immature  as  it  is  a 
much  earlier  composition.  I  select  it  not  without  reluctance  ;  rather 
from  necessity  than  preference.  Its  faults,  I  am  too  sure,  will  strike 
us  much  sooner  than  its  beauties  ;  and  even  by  the  friendliest  and 
most  patient  critic,  it  must  be  admitted  that  among  the  latter,  many  of 
our  Author’s  highest  qualities  are  by  no  means  exhibited  in  full  con¬ 
centration,  nay,  that  some  of  them  are  wanting  altogether,  or  at  best, 
indicated  rather  than  evinced.  Let  the  reader  accept  it  with  such 
allowances  ;  not  as  Richter’s  best  novel,  which  it  is  far  from  being,  but 
simply  as  his  shortest  complete  one  ;  not  as  a  full  impress  of  him,  but 
as  a  faint  outline,  intended  rather  to  excite  curiosity  than  to  satisfy  it. 
On  the  whole,  Richter’s  is  a  mind  peculiarly  difficult  to  represent  by 
specimen  ;  for  its  elements  are  complex  and  various,  and  it  is  not  more 
by  quality  than  by  quantity  that  it  impresses  us. 

Both  Works  I  have  endeavoured  to  present  in  their  full  dimensions, 
with  all  their  appurtenances,  strange  as  some  of  these  may  appear.  If  » 
the  language  seem  rugged,  heterogeneous,  perplexed,  the  blame  is  not 
wholly  mine.  Richter’s  style  may  be  pronounced  the  most  untrans¬ 
latable,  not  in  German  only,  but  in  any  other  modern  literature  1  Let 
the  English  reader  fancy  a  Burton  writing,  not  an  Anatomy  of  Melan¬ 
choly,  but  a  foreign  romance,  through  the  scriptory  organs  of  a  Jeremy 
Bentham !  Richter  exhausts  all  the  powers  of  his  own  most  ductile 
language  :  what  in  him  was  overstrained  and  rude,  would  naturally  be¬ 
come  not  less  but  more  so  in  the  hands  of  his  translator. 

For  this,  and  many  other  offences  of  my  Author,  apologies  might  be 
attempted ;  but  much  as  I  wish  for  a  favourable  sentence,  it  is  not 

1  The  following  long  title  of  a  little  German  Book  I  may  quote  by  way  of  premunition  : 
“1C.  Reinhold’s  Lexicon  for  Jean  Paul’s  Works,  or  Explanation  of  all  the  foreign 
Words  and  unusual  Modes  of  Speech  which  occur  in  his  Writings  ;  with  short  Notices  of 
the  historical  Persons  and  Facts  therein  alluded  to  ;  and  plain  German  Versions  of  the 
most  difficult  Passages  in  the  Context.  A  necessary  Assistant  for  all  who  would  read 
those  Works-  with  Profit.  First  Volume  containing  Levan  a.  Leipzig,  1808.”  Unhap¬ 
pily,  with  this  First  Volume,  K.  Reinhold  seems  to  have  stopped  short.  More  than 
once,  in  the  following  pages,  have  I  longed  for  his  help;  and  been  forced  at  last  to  rest 
satisfied  with  a  meaning,  and  too  imperfect  a  conviction  that  it  was  the  right  one. 


136 


APPENDIX. 


meet  that  Richter,  in  the  Literary  Judgment-hall,  should  appear  as  a 
culprit  ;  or  solicit  suffrages,  which,  if  he  cannot  claim  them,  are  un¬ 
availing.  With  the  hundred  real,  and  the  ten  thousand  seeming  weak¬ 
nesses  of  his  cause,  a  fair  trial  is  a  thing  he  will  court  rather  than 
dread. 


GOETHE. 

The  distinguished  and  peculiar  man,  who  occupies  the  last  volume 
in  our  Collection,  has  lightened  the  task  of  his  biographers  and  critics, 
by  a  work  of  great  interest,  which  he  has  himself  given  to  the  world, 
and  of  which  some  more  or  less  accurate  resemblance  is  also  before  the 
English  reader.  In  his  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit ,  Goethe  has  accom¬ 
plished  the  difficult  problem  of  autobiography  with  what  seems  a  sin¬ 
gular  success:  here,  in  the  kindest  and  coolest  spirit,  he  conducts  us 
through  the  scenes  of  his  past  existence  ;  unfolds  with  graphic  clear¬ 
ness,  and  light  gay  dignity,  whatever  influenced  the  formation  of  his 
character  and  mode  of  thought  ;  depicting  all  with  the  knowledge  of  a 
chief  actor,  and  the  calm  impartial  penetration  of  a  spectator  ;  speaking 
of  himself  as  many  would  wish,  but  few  are  able,  to  speak  of  them¬ 
selves  :  In  the  temper  of  a  third  party,  and  not  sooner  or  not  farther 
than  others  are  desirous  and  entitled  to  hear  that  subject  treated.  If 
the  old  remark  is  true,  that  a  faithful  secret-history  of  the  humblest 
human  being  would  be  attractive  and  instructive  to  the  highest,  this 
picture  of  the  spiritual  and  moral  growth  of  a  Goethe  may  well  be  con¬ 
sidered  as  deserving  no  common  attention,  I  am  sorry  to  understand 
that  the  English  version  of  the  work  is  not  from  the  German,  but  from 
the  French:  judging  by  the  size  of  the  book,  the  business  of  curtail¬ 
ment  in  this  Life  of  Goeilie  must  have  been  proceeded  in  with  a  liberal 
and  fearless  hand  ;  it  seems  also  that  there  are  additions,  which  probably 
are  still  more  offensive.  To  this  copy  of  the  portrait,  defaced  and  dis¬ 
torted  as  it  cannot  fail  to  be,  I  must  not  refer  the  reader :  yet  all  that 
can  be  attempted  here  is  a  few  slight  sketches,  more  in  the  way  of  com¬ 
mentary  than  of  narrative. 

Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe  was  born  at  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  on 
the  28th  of  August  1749.  The  station  and  circumstances  of  his  family 
were  of  a  favourable  sort :  his  father  bore  the  title  of  Imperial  Coun¬ 
cillor,  and  though  personally  unconnected  with  active  affairs,  stood  in 
close  relation  with  the  influential  and  cultivated  classes  of  the  com¬ 
munity.  Both  parents  appear  likewise  to  have  been  of  a  determinate 
and  genuine  form  of  mind,  possessing  many  virtues,  and  no  inconsid¬ 
erable  share  of  intellectual  gifts  and  attainments.  In  the  height  of  his 
fame,  it  was  observed  of  Goethe,  that  his  true-hearted,  idiomatic  and 
expressive  style  of  speech  recalled  his  mother  to  memory  •  who,  while 
nursing  her  fair  boy  on  her  knee,  had  little  dreamed  that  in  him  her 


GOETHE. 


137 


own  good  and  kindly  character  was  to  be  transfigured  to  such  beauty 
and  enlargement,  and  transmitted  in  glorious  emblems  to  distant  coun¬ 
tries  and  succeeding  ages.  The  father,  of  course,  was  fashioned  in  a 
more  rugged  mould,  and  seems  also  to  have  been  originally  of  sterner 
stuff  ;  a  rigorous,  abrupt,  positive  and  thoroughgoing  man  ;  somewhat 
of  a  humorist,  for  he  actually  built  his  house  from  the  top  downwards  ; 
testy  and  indomitable,  but  not  ill-natured  or  ungenerous  ;  clear  in  his 
perceptions,  as  he  was  resolute  in  his  actions  ;  and  withal  of  an  honest 
and  manly  heart.  Both  these  modes  of  character  appear  to  have  united 
in  the  son  ;  the  liveliest  susceptibility  of  all  sorts  was  superadded  to 
them  ;  and  the  scene  he  lived  in  acted  on  him  with  strong  and  compli¬ 
cated  influences.  These  earliest  images  of  his  memory  he  has  set  before 
us  with  the  most  graceful  .simplicity  in  the  work  above  referred  to :  the 
aspects  of  life  in  Gothic  Frankfort,  with  its  old  German  minds  and  old 
German  manners,  are  brought  home  to  our  eyes  ;  we  walk  among  rich 
old-fashioned  wondrous  objects,  and  converse  with  originals  as  wondrous 
and  old-fashioned  as  their  abode. 

Goethe  was  destined,  as  his  father  had  been,  for  the  profession  of 
law  ;  and  in  due 'time,  he  went  successively  to  Leipzig  and  Strasburg, 
to  prepare  for,  and  to  undertake,  the  study  of  it.  But  his  quick,  im¬ 
passioned  and  discursive  mind,  impressed  by  the  most  varied  impulses, 
was  continually  diverging  into  many  provinces  remote  enough  from  this 
his  appointed  occupation  ;  for  which,  as  was  naturally  to  be  expected, 
he  had  never  shown  any  preference  ;  though,  from  time  to  time,  he  had 
not  failed  to  prosecute,  with  fits  of  resolute  diligence,  the  tasks  prescribed 
by  it.  In  1771,  he  obtained  his  degree  :  but  if  the  form  of  his  outward 
life  might  now  seem  clear  and  determined,  his  inward  world  was  still  in 
a  state  of  uproar  and  disorder.  The  ambition  of  wealth  and  official 
celebrity  would  not  seize  him  with  due  force  :  a  thousand  vague  pur¬ 
poses,  and  vehement  wishes,  and  brightest  and  blackest  forecastings, 
were  conflicting  within  him  ;  for  a  strong  spirit  was  here  struggling  to 
body  itself  forth  from  the  most  discordant  elements  ;  and  wliait  was  at 
last  to  rise  as  a  fair  universe  of  thought  still  rolled  as  a  dim  and  waste- 
ful  chaos. 

By  degrees,  however,  after  not  a  little  suffering  in  many  hard  con¬ 
tests  with  himself  and  his  circumstances,  he  began  to  emerge  from 
these  troubles:  light  dawned  on  his  course  ;  and  his  true  destination, 
a  life  of  literature,  became  more  and  more  plain  to  him.  His  first 
efforts  were  crowned  with  a  success  well  calculated  to  confirm  him 
in  such  purposes.  Gotz  von  Berlichingen ,  an  historical  drama  of  the 
Feudal  Ages,  appeared  in  1773  ;  by  the  originality  both  of  its  subjects 
and  its  execution,  attracting  the  public  eye  to  the  young  author  :  and 
next  year  his  Sorrows  of  Werter  rose  like  a  literary  meteor  on  the  world  ; 
arid  carried  his  name  on  its  blazing  wings,  not  only  over  Germany,  but 
into  the  remotest  corners  of  Europe.  The  chief  incident  of  this  work 


138 


APPENDIX. 


had  been  suggested  by  a  tragical  catastrophe,  which  had  occurred  in  his 
neighbourhood,  during  a  residence  at  Wetzlar  :  the  emotions  and  de¬ 
lineations  which  give  life  to  it  ;  the  vague  impassioned  longing,  the 
moody  melancholy,  the  wayward  love  and  indignation,  the  soft  feeling 
and  the  stern  philosophy,  which  characterise  the  hero,  he  had  drawn 
from  his  own  past  or  actual  experience. 

The  works  just  mentioned,  though  noble  specimens  of  youthful  talent, 
are  still  not  so  much  distinguished  by  their  intrinsic  merits,  as  by  their 
splendid  fortune.  It  would  be  difficult  to  name  two  books,  which  have 
exercised  a  deeper  influence  on  the  subsequent  literature  of  Europe, 
than  these  two  performances  of  a  young  author  ;  his  first-fruits,  the  prod¬ 
uce  of  his  twenty -fourth  year.  Werier  appeared  to  seize  the  hearts  of 
men  in  all  quarters  of  the  world,  and  to  utter. for  them  the  word  which 
they  had  long  been  waiting  to  hear.  As  usually  happens,  too,  this  same 
word  once  uttered  was  soon  abundantly  repeated  ;  spoken  in  all  dialects, 
and  chanted  through  all  the  notes  of  the  gamut,  till  at  length  the  sound 
of  it  had  grown  a  weariness  rather  than  a  pleasure.  Sceptical  sentimen¬ 
tality,  view-hunting,  love,  friendship,  suicide  and  desperation,  became 
the  staple  of  literary  ware  ;  and  though  the  epidemic,  after  a  long 
course  of  years,  subsided  in  Germany,  it  reappeared  with  various  modi¬ 
fications  in  other  countries  ;  and  everywhere  abundant  traces  of  its  good 
and  bad  effects  are  still  to  be  discerned.  The  fortune  of  Berlichingen 
with  the  Iron  Hand ,  though  less  sudden,  was  by  no  means  less  exalted. 
In  his  own  country,  Gotz ,  though  he  now  stapds  solitary  and  childless, 
became  the  parent  of  an  innumerable  progeny  of  chivalry  plays,  feudal 
delineations,  and  poetico-antiquarian  performances ;  which,  though 
long  ago  deceased,  made  noise  enough  in  their  day  and  generation  :  and 
with  ourselves  his  influence  has  been  perhaps  still  more  remarkable. 
Sir  Walter  Scott’s  first  literary  enterprise  was  a  translation  of  Gotz  non 
Berlichingen:  and  if  genius  could  be  communicated  like  instruction, 
Ave  might  call  this  work  of  Goethe’s  the  prime  cause  of  Marmion  and 
the  Lady  of  the  Lake ,  with  all  that  has  followed  from  the  same  creative 
hand.  Truly,  a  grain  of  seed  that  has  lighted  in  the  right  soil!  For  if 
not  firmer  and  fairer,  it  has  grown  to  be  taller  and  broader  than  any 
other  tree  and  all  the  nations  of  the  Earth  are  still  yearly  gathering  of 
its  fruit. 

But  overlooking  these  spiritual  genealogies,  which  bring  little  cer¬ 
tainty  and  little  profit,  it  may  be  sufficient  to  observe  of  Berlichingen  and 
Werter ,  that  they  stand  prominent  among  the  causes,  or,  at  the  very 
least,  among  the  signals,  of  a  great  change  in  modern  Literature.  The 
former  directed  men’s  attention  with  a  new  force  to  the  picturesque  ef¬ 
fects  of  the  Fast ;  and  the  latter,  for  the  first  time,  attempted  the  more 
accurate  delineation  of  a  class  of  feelings,  deeply  important  to  modern 
minds  ;  but  for  which  our  elder  poetry  offered  no  exponent,  and  per¬ 
haps  could  offer  none,  because  they  are  feelings  that  arise  from  passion 


GOETHE. 


139 


incapable  of  being  converted  into  action,  and  belong  chiefly  to  an  age 
as  indolent,  cultivated  and  unbelieving  as  our  own.  This,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  dash  of  falsehood  which  may  exist  in  Werter  itself,  and  the 
boundless  delirium  of  extravagance  which  it  called  forth  in  others,  is  a 
high  praise  which  cannot  justly  be  denied  it.  The  English  reader  ought 
also  to  understand  that  our  current  version  of  Werter  is  mutilated  and 
inaccurate ;  it  comes  to  us  through  the  all-subduing  medium  of  the 
French ;  shorn  of  its  caustic  strength ;  with  its  melancholy  rendered 
maudlin ;  its  hero  reduced  from  the  stately  gloom  of  a  broken-hearted 
poet  to  the  tearful  wrangling  of  a  dyspeptic  tailor. 

One  of  the  very  first  to  perceive  the  faults  of  these  works,  and  the 
ridiculous  extravagance  of  their  imitators,  was  Goethe  himself.  In  this 
unlooked-for  and  unexampled  popularity,  he  was  far  from  feeling  that 
lie  had  attained  his  object:  this  first  outpouring  of  his  soul  liad  calmed 
its  agitations,  not  exhausted  or  even  indicated  its  strength ;  and  he  now 
began  to  see  afar  off  a  much  higher  region,  as  well  as  glimpses  of  the 
track  by  which  it  might  be  reached.  To  cultivate  his  own  spirit,  not 
only  as  an  author,  but  as  a  man  ;  to  obtain  dominion  over  it,  and  wield 
its  resources  as  instruments  in  the  service  of  what  seemed  Good  and 
Beautiful,  had  been  his  object  more  or  less  distinctly  from  the  first,  as 
it  is  that  of  all  true  men  in  their  several  spheres.  According  to  his  own 
deep  maxim,  that  ‘  Doubt  of  any  sort  can  only  be  removed  by  Action,’ 
this  object  had  now  become  more  clear  to  him  ;  and  he  may  be  said  to 
have  pursued  it  to  the  present  hour,  with  a  comprehensiveness  and  un¬ 
wearied  perseverance,  rarely  if  ever  exemplified  in  the  history  of  such 
a  mind. 

His  external  relations  had  already  ceased  to  obstruct  him  in  this  pur¬ 
suit,  and  they  now  became  more  favourable  than  ever.  In  1776,  the 
Heir  Apparent  of  Weimar  was  passing  through  Frankfort ;  on  which  oc¬ 
casion,  by  the  intervention  of  some  friends,  he  waited  upon  Goethe. 
The  visit  must  have  been  mutually  agreeable ;  for  a  short  time  after¬ 
wards,  the  young  author  was  invited  to  Court ;  apparently,  to  contribute 
his  assistance  in  various  literary  institutions  and  arrangements,  then 
proceeding  or  contemplated;  and  in  pursuance  of  this  honourable  call, 
he  accordingly  settled  at  Weimar,  with  the  title  of  Legationsrath ,  and 
the  actual  dignity  of  a  place  in  the  Collegium ,  or  Council.  The  connex¬ 
ion,  begun  under  such  favourable  auspices,  and  ever  since  continued 
unimpaired,  has  been  productive  of  important  consequences,  not  only 
to  Weimar,  but  to  all  Germany.  The  noble  purpose  undertaken  by  the 
Duchess  Amelia,  was  zealously  forwarded  by  the  young  Duke  on  his  ac¬ 
cession  ;  under  whose  influence,  supported  and  directed  by  his  new 
Councillor,  this  inconsiderable  state  has  gained  for  itself  a  fairer  dis¬ 
tinction  than  any  of  its  larger,  richer,  or  more  warlike  rivals.  By 
degrees,  whatever  was  brightest  in  the  genius  of  Germany  had  been 
gathered  to  this  little  Court :  a  classical  theatre  was  under  the  superm- 


140 


APPENDIX. 


tendence  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  ;  here  Wieland  taught  and  sung  ;  in 
the  pulpit  was  Herder  :  and  possessing  such  a  four,  the  small  town  of 
Weimar,  some  twenty  years  ago,  might  challenge  the  proudest  capital  of 
the  world  to  match  it  in  intellectual  wealth.  Occupied  so  profitably  to 
his  country,  and  honourably  to  himself,  Goethe  continued  rising  in  esti¬ 
mation  with  his  Prince  :  by  degrees,  a  political  was  added  to  his  literary 
influence  ;  in  1779  he  became  Privy  Councillor ;  President  in  17S2  ; 
and,  at  length,  after  his  return  from  Italy,  where  he  had  spent  two 
years  in  various  studies  and  observation,  he  was  appointed  Minister ;  a 
post  which  he  only  a  few  years  ago  resigned,  on  his  final  retirement 
from  public  affairs.  Ill  this,  his  second  country,  he  still  resides.  The 
German  biographies  are  careful  to  inform  us  that  by  the  Duke  of  Wei¬ 
mar  he  was  ennobled  ;  and  decorated  by  Alexander  and  Napoleon,  and 
various  other  kings  and  kaisers,  with  their  several  insignia  of  honour. 

A  much  purer  and  more  imperishable  series  of  honours  he  has  earned 
for  himself,  by  the  peaceful  efforts  of  his  own  genius.  His  active  duties 
were,  at  all  times,  more  or  less  intimately  connected  with  literature  ; 
they  seem  not  to  have  obstructed  the  silent  labours  of  his  closet  ;  and 
perhaps  they  rather  forwarded  the  great  business  of  his  life,  a  thorough 
universal  culture  of  all  his  being.  Goethe’s  history  is  a  picture  of  the 
most  diverse  studies  and  acquisitions :  Literature  he  has  tried  success¬ 
fully  in  nearly  every  one  of  its  departments ;  with  Art,  ancient  and 
modern,  he  has  familiarised  himself  beyond  a  rival ;  Science,  also,  he 
seems  to  have 'surveyed  with  no  careless  or  feeble  eye,  and  his  contribu¬ 
tions  to  several  of  its  branches,  particularly  of  Botany  and  Optics,  have 
been  thankfully  received  by  their  professors.  Some  of  our  readers  may 
be  surprised  to  learn,  that  the  painted  Diagram  of  Mountain-altitudes 
which  ornaments  their  libraries,  exhibiting  in  one  view  the  successive 
elevations  of  the  Globe,  was  devised  by  the  Author  of  Faust  and  The 
Sorrows  of  Werter. 

Goethe’s  purely  literary  works  amount  to  between  twenty  and  thirty 
considerable  volumes.  A  bare  enumeration  of  their  names,  without 
note  or  comment,  would  be  perplexing  rather  than  instructive  ;  and  for 
note  or  comment  of  the  humblest  sort  our  present  limits  are  too  narrow. 
In  the  province  of  the  Drama,  omitting  Eginont,  Iphigenie ,  and  multi¬ 
tudes  of  lighter  pieces,  we  must  mention,  as  entitled  to  peculiar  distinc¬ 
tion,  the  tragedy  of  Torquato  Tasso ,  and  the  play  of  Faust.  The  first 
paints,  in  simple  gracefulness,  the  poetic  temperament  at  conflict  with 
the  ordinances  of  vulgar  life  ;  a  pure  and  touching  picture,  full  of  wis¬ 
dom,  calm  depth  and  unostentatious  pathos.  The  second,  of  a  still 
deeper  character,  images  forth,  in  the  superstitious  tradition  of  Faust , 
the  contest  of  the  good  principle  in  human  nature  with  the  bad  ;  the 
struggle  of  Man’s  Soul  against  Ignorance,  Sin  and  Suffering  ;  the  indirect 
subject  of  many,  perhaps  of  all  true  poems  ;  but  here  treated  directly, 
with  a  wild  mysterious  impressiveness,  which  distinguishes  this  play 


GOETHE. 


141 


from  every  other.  Faust  and  also  Iphigenie  have  been  translated  into 
English. 

Another  singular  performance  of  Goethe’s  is  Beinecke  Fucks,  a  poetic 
version  of  the  old  tale,  said  to  be  originally  a  Netherlands  political  pas¬ 
quinade,  and  which  exists  in  English,  under  the  corresponding  title  of 
Reynard  the  Fox.  Goethe’s  work  is  written  in  hexameters,  in  twelve 
books,  like  another  iEneid  :  a  wondrous  affair ;  imbued  with  the  truest 
humour,  full  of  marvellous  imitations,  grotesque  descriptions,  and  mani¬ 
fold  moralities.  If  beasts  could  speak,  we  should  surely  expect  them 
to  express  their  ‘  general  views  ’  as  they  are  made  to  do  in  this  epos  : 
the  ass  here  is  a  philosophical  masticator  of  thistles  and  gorse  ;  Bruin 
thinks,  and  talks,  and  acts,  like  a  very  bear  ;  and  ‘  Malapertus  the  For¬ 
tress’  is  still  redolent  of  murdered  poultry.  Nor  is  this  strange  mimicry 
the  sole  charm  of  the  work  ;  for  there  is  method  in  its  madness  ;  across 
these  marvellous  delineations  we  discern  a  deeper  significance.  It  is  a 
parody  of  human  life,  as  it  were,  a  magic  picture,  with  forms  of  the 
4  wildest  mirth,  which,  while  we  gaze  on  them,  sadden  into  serious  and 
instructive,  though  still  smiling,  monitors.  Herman  und  Dorothea \  is 
also  written  in  hexameters,  and  with  a  cheerful  earnestness,  which  has 
recommended  it  to  great  favour  with  the  Germans  You  see  it  printed 
in  gay  miniature,  with  gilding  and  decorations  ;  and  friend  testifies  his 
kindness  to  friend  by  the  present  of  this  Civic  Epos. 

In  the  Romance  department,  Goethe  has  written  several  works,  and 
on  peculiar  principles.  Besides  Werter,  we  have  Wilhelm  M sister'1  s 
Apprenticeship ,  and  Die  Wahlvencandtschaften  (The  Elective  Affinities)  ; 
and  five  years  ago  he  published  the  first  volume  of  Wilhelm  Meister' s 
Travels ,  a  fragment  which  the  reader  is  now  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
perusing.  These  performances,  though  bearing  the  common  name  of 
novel,  are  of  very  varied  quality:  and  some  of  them  but  ill  represented 
by  so  trivial  a  title.  Wilhelm  Meister’s  Apprenticeship ,  for  instance, 
whatever  may  be  thought  of  it  in  other  respects,  has  a  deeper  object 
than  many  a  poem  which  has  called  itself  epic:  nor  was  it  hastily  or 
carelessly  huddled  together  without  study  ;  for  this  novel,  it  would  ap¬ 
pear,  lay  ten  years  in  the  Author’s  mind  and  hand,  one  year  longer  than 
even  the  Horatian  period.  Like  many  of  his  other  works,  Meister  has 
called  forth  a  numerous  series  of  imitations  ;  but  the  strength  of  such 
productions  lies  less  in  the  form  than  in  the  substance,  which  it  is  not 
so  easy  to  copy  ;  and  accordingly,  when  most  of  these  ‘  Art-novels  ’  are 
forgotten,  Meister  alone  continues  rising  in  esteem.  Except  the  Wahl- 
vencandtschaften,  all  Goethe’s  novels  are  now  in  English. 

Of  his  numerous  short  Poems  it  is  difficult  to  say  a  well-weighed 
word  :  for  they  are  of  all  sorts,  gay  and  grave,  descriptive,  lyrical, 
didactic,  idyllic,  epigrammatic  ;  and  of  all  these  species,  the  common 
name,  without  long  expositions,  would,  when  applied  to  him,  excite  a 
false  idea.  Goethe  is  nowhere  more  entirely  original,  more  fascinating, 


142 


APPENDIX. 


more  indescribable,  than  in  his  smaller  poems.  •  One  quality  which  very 
generally  marks  them,  particularly  those  of  a  later  date,  is  their  pecul¬ 
iar  expressiveness,  their  fulness  of  meaning.  A  single  thing  is  said, 
and  a  thousand  things  are  indicated.  They  are  spells  which  cleave  to 
our  memory,  and  by  which  we  summon  beautiful  spirits  from  the  vasty 
deep  of  thought.  Often  at  the  first  aspect  they  appear  commonplace, 
or  altogether  destitute  of  significance  :  we  look  at  the  lines  on  the  can¬ 
vas  ;  and  they  seem  careless  dashes,  mere  random  strokes,  representing 
nothing  save  the  caprices  of  their  author  ;  we  change  our  place,  we 
shift  and  shift,  till  we  find  the  right  point  of  view  ;  and  all  at  once  a 
fair  figure  starts  into  being,  encircled  with  graces  and  light  charms, 
and  by  its  witcheries  attracting  heart  and  mind.  In  his  songs  he  recalls 
to  us  those  of  Shakspeare  :  they  are  not  speeches,  but  musical  tones  ;  the 
sentiment  is  not  stated  in  logical  sequence,  but  poured  forth  in  fitful 
and  fantastic  suggestions  :  they  are  the  wild  wood-notes  of  the  nightin¬ 
gale  ;  they  are  to  be  sung,  not  said. 

A  large  portion  of  Goethe’s  writings  still  remains  to  be  classed  under 
the  head  of  Miscellanies.  We  have  sketches  of  Travels  ;  dissertations, 
direct  or  allegorical,  on  Art  ;  autobiography,  continuous  or  in  frag¬ 
ments  ;  fantasies,  dialogues,  or  other  light  essays,  on  Taste,  Manners, 
and  Morals  ;  there  is  even  a  short  treatise  on  the  geography  of  the 
Children  of  Israel’s  journey  into  Canaan  !  Nor  has  he  disdained  the 
humble  offices  of  a  translator  and  editor.  The  Life  of  Benvenuto  Cellini, 
which  lately  appeared  in  English,  he  long  ago  translated,  with  notes. 
Voltaire’s  Mahomet  had  a  similar  honour  from  him  ;  also  Diderot’s 
Novell  de  Rameau ,  the  original  of  which  was  published  only  very  lately, 
many  years  after  the  German  version.  His  editorial  functions,  I  be¬ 
lieve,  he  has  not  yet  laid  aside  ;  for  two  periodicals,  the  Morphologie 
and  the  Kunst  und  Alterthum  (Art  and'  Antiquities),  are  still  occasion¬ 
ally  continued  under  his  direction  and  cooperation. 

Such  are  some  specimens  of  the  labours,  in  which  Goethe  has  spent 
many  diligent  and  most  honourable  years.  That  they  are  too  varied  to 
be  all  excellent,  that  he  would  have  better  cared  for  his  fame,  had  he 
limited  his  efforts  to  a  narrower  circle,  is  an  obvious  cavil ;  to  which 
also  he  can  reply,  as  he  has  already  done  for  D’Alembert,  that  there 
are  higher  things  on  Earth  than  fame  ;  that  a  universal  develop¬ 
ment  of  our  spiritual  nature  may  actually  be  more  precious  to  us 
than  the  solace  of  our  vanity  ;  that  the  true  business  is  to  be,  not  to 
seem ;  and  that  intellectual  artisanship,  however  wondered  at,  is  less 
desirable  than  intellectual  manhood.  Goethe  has  a  right  to  speak  on 
this  subject  :  for  he  has  tried  public  favour,  and  tried  the  want  of  it  ; 
and  found  that  he  could  hold  on  his  way  through  either  fortune. 
Thirty  years  ago,  he  might  be  said  to  be  without  an  audience  even  in 
his  own  country  ;  his  best  works  were  received  with  chiHing  apathy,  or 
objected  to  with  the  most  melancholy  stolidity  ;  and  many  a  good- 


GOETJIE. 


143 


natured  friend  might  be  heard  lamenting  that  the  genius  of  Goethe 
should  have  faded  with  the  fire  of  his  youth,  that  the  author  of  Werter 
and  Berlichingen  should  have  sunk  to  Meister  and  Torquato  Tasso. 
Goethe  had  outgrown  his  generation  ;  his  culture  was  too  high  for  its 
apprehension.  He  went  on  unweariedly  to  cultivate  himself  still 
farther.  These  things  have  their  day  :  the  reign  of  Stupidity  is  boister¬ 
ous  and  boastful  ;  but  it  shall  not  endure  forever.  A  better  race  of 
critics  arose  ;  the  Nicolais  1  and  Mansos  gave  place  to  the  Schlegels,  the 
Tiecks,  the  Richters.  Goethe  has  lived  to  see  a  truer  time  ;  his  calm 
perseverance  has  met  with  its  outward  as  well  as  its  inward  rewards  ; 
and  what  was  once  the  solitary  consciousness  of  his  own  mind,  is  now 
reflected  back  to  him  from  millions  of  approving  minds.  In  the  even¬ 
ing  of  his  glorious  life,  a  destiny  has  been  provided  for  him  such  as 
falls  to  the  lot  of  few  mortals.  Secluded  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  ; 
surrounded,  and  still  occupied,  with  whatever  is  curious  in  literature, 
science,  or  art,  the  venerable  Master,  in  looking  at  the  bright  past,  may 
find  it  yet  in  harmony  with  the  present  and  the  future  :  for  his  heart 
and  hand  are  still  busy  in  his  vocation  ;  faces  that  love  him  gladden 
his  abode  ;  and  voices  of  reverence  and  gratitude  reach  him  from  all 
ends  of  the  world.  His  mental  faculties  seem  visited  by  no  decay  :  the 
work  written  last  year  is  as  full  of  life  as  the  work  written  threescore 
years  ago  :  his  mind  is  growing  older,  but  more  interesting,  as  well  as 
older;  it  is  stiller,  wiser,  lovelier  ;  and  the  long  shadows  of  evening 
are  blended  with  the  mellowest  sunshine.  His  West-ostlicher  Divan ,  a 
series  of  Western-oriental  sketches  and  poems,  is  still  as  graceful  and 
expressive  as  if  half  a  century  had  been  subtracted  from  its  date.  Wil¬ 
helm  Meister' s  Travels  was  published  in  1821  ;  and  some  of  our  readers 
may  peruse  it  with  a  new  interest,  as  the  singular  specimen  of  a  light 
and  living  poem  by  a  man  of  seventy-two. 

1  Nicolai  was  a  Bookseller  in  Berlin  ;  a  man  of  a  shrewd,  inquiring,  substantial  mind  ; 
what  is  called  a  sound  practical  man.  He  had  made  considerable  attainments  in  knowl¬ 
edge,  by  his  own  unaided  efforts  ;  and  was  indeed  a  very  meritorious  person,  had  he  not 
committed  one  fundamental  error :  To  the  very  last  he  never  could  persuade  himself 
that  there  was  anything  in  Heaven  or  Earth  which  had  not  been  dreamed  of  in  his 
philosophy.  He  was  animated  with  a  fierce  zeal  against  Jesuits ;  in  this  most  people 
thought  him  partly  right :  but  when  he  wrote  against  Kant’s  philosophy,  without  com¬ 
prehending  it ;  and  judged  of  poetry  as  he  judged  of  Brunswick  mum,  by  its  utiliUj, 
many  people  thought  him  wrong.  A  man  of  such  spiritual  habitudes  is  now  by  the  Ger¬ 
mans  called  a  Phtlister,  Philistine :  Nicolai  earned  for  himself  the  painful  preeminence., 
of  being  Erz-Philister,  Arch-Philistine.  Stray  specimens  of  the  Philistine  nation  are 
said  to  exist  in  our  own  Islands  ;  but  we  have  no  name  for  them  like  the  Germans  ;  who 
indeed,  by  this  cheek-burning,  may  perhaps  be  thought  to  have  cleaned  their  country  too 
well  of  these  Uncircumcised.  By  way  of  explanation,  I  should  add,  that  Philister,  in  the 
dialect  of  German  Universities,  corresponds  to  the  Brute  of  Cambridge;  designating 
every  non-student.  As  applied  to  Nicolai  and  his  kindred,  it  came  into  use  in  the  period 
of  Xenien  (see  §  Tieclc)  ;  and  in  this  sense  it  is  now  to  be  found,  with  all  its  derivatives, 
even  in  grave  writings.  At  present,  the  literary  Philistine  seldom  shows,  never  pa¬ 
rades  himself  in  Germany ;  and  when  he  does  appear  he  is  in  the  last  stage  of  emacia¬ 
tion  * 


144 


APPENDIX. 


Of  a  nature  so  rare  and  complex  it  is  difficult  to  form  a  true  compre¬ 
hension  ;  difficult  even  to  express  what  comprehension  we  have  formed. 
In  Goethe’s  mind,  the  first  aspect  that  strikes  us  is  its  calmness,  then 
its  beauty  ;  a  deeper  inspection  reveals  to  us  its  vastness  and  unmeas¬ 
ured  strength.  This  man  rules,  and  is  not  ruled.  The  stern  and  fiery 
energies  of  a  most  passionate  soul  lie  silent  in  the  centre  of  his  being  ; 
a  trembling  sensibility  has  been  inured  to  stand,  without  flinching  or 
murmur,  the  sharpest  trials.  Nothing  outward,  nothing  inward,  shall  agi¬ 
tate  or  control  him.  The  brightest  and  most  capricious  fancy,  the  most 
piercing  and  inquisitive  intellect,  the  wildest  and  deepest  imagination  ; 
the  highest  thrills  of  joy,  the  bitterest  pangs  of  sorrow  :  all  these  are  his, 
lie  is  not  theirs.  While  he  moves  every  heart  from  its  stedfastness,  his 
own  is  firm  and  still :  the  words  that  search  into  the  inmost  recesses  of 
our  nature,  he  pronounces  with  a  tone  of  coldness  and  equanimity  ;  in 
the  deepest  pathos  he  weeps  not,  or  his  tears  are  like  water  trickling 
from  a  rock  of  adamant.  He  is  king  of  himself  and  of  his  world  ;  nor 
does  lie  rule  it  like  a  vulgar  great  man,  like  a  Napoleon  or  Charles 
Twelfth,  by  the  mere  brute  exertion  of  his  will,  grounded  on  no  princi¬ 
ple.  or  on  a  false  one :  his  faculties  and  feelings  are  not  fettered  or 
prostrated  under  the  iron  sway  of  Passion,  but  led  and  guided  in  kindly 
union  under  the  mild  sway  of  Reason  ;  as  the  fierce  primeval  elements 
of  Nature  were  stilled  at  the  coming  of  Light,  and  bound  together  under 
its  soft  vesture,  into  a  glorious  and  beneficent  Creation. 

This  is  the  true  Rest  of  man  ;  no  stunted  unbelieving  callousness,  no 
reckless  surrender  to  blind  Force,  no  opiate  delusion  ;  but  the  harmoni-. 
ous  adjustment  of  Necessity  and  Accident,  of  what  is  changeable  and 
what  is  unchangeable  in  our  destiny  ;  the  calm  supremacy  of  the  spirit 
over  its  circumstances  ;  the  dim  aim  of  every  human  soul,  the  full  at¬ 
tainment  of  only  a  chosen  few.  It  comes  not  unsought  to  any  ;  but  the 
wise  are  wise  because  they  think  no  price  too  high  for  it.  Goethe’s  in¬ 
ward  home  has  been  reared  by  slow  and  laborious  efforts  ;  but  it  stands 
on  no  hollow  or  deceitful  basis  :  for  his  peace  is  not  from  blindness, 
but  from  clear  vision  ;  not  from  uncertain  hope  of  alteration,  but  from 
sure  insight  into  what  cannot  alter.  His  world  seems  once  to  have  been 
desolate  and  baleful  as  that  of  the  darkest  sceptic  :  but  he  has  covered 
it  anew  with  beauty  and  solemnity,  derived  from  deeper  sources,  over 
which  Doubt  can  have  no  sway.  He  has  inquired  fearlessly,  and  fear¬ 
lessly  searched  out  and  denied  the  False  ;  but  he  has  not  forgotten, 
what  is  equally  essential  and  infinitely  harder,  to  search  out  and  admit 
the  True.  His  heart  is  still  full  of  warmth,  though  his  head  is  clear 
and  cold ;  the  world  for  him  is  still  full  of  grandeur,  though  lie 
clothes  it  with  no  false  colours  :  his  fellow-creatures  are  still  objects  of 

I  o 

reverence  and  love,  though  their  basenesses  are  p’ainer  to  no  eye  than 
to  his.  To  reconcile  these  contradictions  is  the  task  of  all  good  men, 
each  for  himself,  in  his  own  way  and  manner  ;  a  task  which,  in  our 


145 


GOETHE. 

age,  is  encompassed  witli  difficulties  peculiar  to  the  time ;  and  which 
Goethe  seems  to  have  accomplished  with  a  success  that  few  can  rival.  A 
mind  so  in  unity  with  itself,  even  though  it  were  a  poor  and  small 
one,  would  arrest  our  attention,  and  win  some  kind  regard  from  us  ; 
hut  when  this  mind  ranks  among  the  strongest  and  most  complicated 
of  the  species,  it  becomes  a  sight  full  of  interest,  a  study  full  of  deep 
instruction. 

Such  a  mind  as  Goethe’s  is  the  fruit  not  only  of  a  royal  endowment 
by  nature,  but  also  of  a  culture  proportionate  to  her  bounty.  In 
Goethe's  original  form  of  spirit  we  discern  the  highest  gifts  of  man¬ 
hood,  without  any  deficiency  of  the  lower :  he  has  an  eye  and  a  heart 
equally  for  the  sublime,  the  common,  and  the  ridiculous  ;  the  elements 
at  once  of  a  poet,  a  thinker,  and  a  wit.  Of  his  culture  we  have  often 
spoken  already  ;  and  it  deserves  again  to  be  held  up  to  praise  and  imH 
tation.  This,  as  he  himself  unostentatiously  confesses,  has  been  the 
soul  of  all  his  conduct,  the  great  enterprise  of  his  life,  and  few  that  un¬ 
derstand  him  will  be  apt  to  deny  that  he  has  prospered.  As  a  writer, 
his  resources  have  been  accumulated  from  nearly  all  the  provinces  of 
human  intellect  and  activity  ;  and  he  has  trained  himself  to  use  these 
complicated  instruments  with  a  light  expertness  which  we  might  have 
admired  in  the  professor  of  a  solitary  department.  Freedom,  and  grace, 
and  smiling  earnestness  are  the  characteristics  of  his  works  :  the  matter 
of  them  Hows  along  in  chaste  abundance,  in  the  softest  combination  ; 
and  their  style  is  referred  to  by  native  critics  as  the  highest  specimen 
of  the  German  tongue.  On  this  latter  point  the  vote  of  a  stranger  may 
well  be  deemed  unavailing  ;  but  the  charms  of  Goethe’s  style  lie  deeper 
than  the  mere  words  ;  for  language,  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  is  the  ex¬ 
press  image  of  thought,  or  rather  it  is  the  body  of  which  thought  is  the 
soul  ;  the  former  rises  into  being  together  with  the  latter,  and  the  graces 
of  the  one  are  shadowed  forth  in  the  movements  of  the  other.  Goethe’s 
language,  even  to  a  foreigner,  is  full  of  character  and  secondary  mean¬ 
ings  ;  polished,  yet  vernacular  and  cordial,  it  sounds  like  the  dialect  of 
wrise,  ancient,  and  true-hearted  men  :  in  poetry,  brief,  sharp,  simple 
and  expressive  ;  in  prose,  perhaps  still  more  pleasing  ;  for  it  is  at  once 
concise  and  full,  rich,  clear,  unpretending  and  melodious ;  and  the 
sense,  not  presented  in  alternating  flashes,  piece  after  piece  revealed 
and  withdrawn,  rises  before  us  as  in  continuous  dawning,  and  stands  at 
last  simultaneously  complete,  and  bathed  in  the  mellowest  and  ruddiest 
sunshine.  It  brings  to  mind  wl^at  the  prose  of  Hooker,  Bacon,  Milton, 
Browne,  would  have  been,  had  they  written  under  the  good,  without 
the  bad  influences,  of  that  French  precision,  which  has  polished  and  at¬ 
tenuated,  trimmed  and  impoverished,  all  modern  languages  ;  made  our 
meaning  clear,  and  too  often  shallow  as  well  as  clear. 

But  Goethe’s  culture  as  a  writer  is  perhaps  less  remarkable  than  his 
culture  as  a  man.  He  has  learned  not  in  head  only,  but  also  in  heart ; 

10 


140 


APPENDIX. 


not  from  Art  and  Literature,  but  also  by  action  and  passion,  in  the 
rugged  school  of  Experience.  If  asked  wliat  was  the  grand  character¬ 
istic  of  his  writings,  we  should  not  say  knowledge,  but  wisdom.  A 
mind  that  has  seen,  and  suffered,  and  done,  speaks  to  us  of  what  it  has 
tried  and  conquered.  .  A  gay  delineation  will  give  us  notice  of  dark  and 
toilsome  experiences,  of  business  done  in  the  great  deep  of  the  spirit ; 
a  maxim,  trivial  to  the  careless  eye,  will  rise  with  light  and  solution 
over  long  perplexed  periods  of  our  own  history.  It  is  thus  that  heart 
speaks  to  heart,  that  the  life  of  one  man  becomes  a  possession  to  all. 
Here  is  a  mind  of  the  most  subtle  and  tumultuous  elements  ;  but  it  is 
governed  in  peaceful  diligence,  and  its  impetuous  and  ethereal  faculties 
work  softly  together  for  good  and  noble  ends.  Goethe  may  be  called  a 
Philosopher  ;  for  he  loves  and  has  practised  as  a  man  the  wisdom  which, 
as  a  poet,  he  inculcates.  Composure  and  cheerful  seriousness  seem  to 
breathe  over  alL  his  character.  There  is  no  whining  over  human  woes: 
it  is  understood  that  we  must  all  simply  strive  to  alleviate  or  remove 
them.  There  is  no  noisy  battling  for  opinions  ;  but  a  persevering  effort 
to  make  Truth  lovely  and  recommend  her,  by  a  thousand  avenues,  to 
the  hearts  of  all  men.  Of  his  personal  manners  we  can  easily  believe 
the  universal  report,  as  often  given  in  the  way  of  censure  as  of  praise, 
that  he  is  a  man  of  consummate  breeding  and  the  stateliest  presence : 
for  an  air  of  polished  tolerance,  of  courtly,  we  might  almost  say  majes¬ 
tic  repose,  and  serene  humanity,  is  visible  throughout  his  works.  In 
no  line  of  them  does  he  speak  with  asperity  of  any  man  ;  scarcely  ever 
even  of  a  thing.  He  knows  the  good,  and  loves  it  ;  he  knows  the  bad 
and  hateful,  and  rejects  it ;  but  in  neither  case  with  violence  :  his  love 
is  calm  and  active  ;  his  rejection  is  implied  rather  than  pronounced  ; 
meek  and  gentle,  though  we  see  that  it  is  thorough,  and  never  to  be 
revoked.  The  noblest  and  the  basest  he  not  only  seems  to  comprehend, 
but  to  personate  and  body  forth  in  their  most  secret  lineaments  :  hence 
actions  and  opinions  appear  to  him  as  they  are,  with  all  the  circum¬ 
stances  which  extenuate  or  endear  them  to  the  hearts  where  they  origi¬ 
nated  and  are  entertained.  This  also  is  the  spirit  of  our  Shakspeare, 
and  perhaps  of  every  great  dramatic  poet.  Shakspeare  is  no  sectarian  ; 
to  all  he  deals  with  equity  and  mercy  ;  because  he  knows  all,  and  his 
heart  is  wide  enough  for  all.  In  his  mind  the  world  is  a  whole  ;  he 
figures  it  as  Providence  govern  it  ;  and  to  him  it  is  not  strange  that  the 
sun  should  be  caused  to  shine  on  the  evil  and  the  good,  and  the  rain  to 
fall  on  the  just  and  the  unjust. 

Goethe  has  been  called  the  German  Voltaire  ;  but  it  is  a  name  which 
does  him  wrong,  and  describes  him  ill.  Except  in  the  corresponding 
variety  of  their  pursuits  and  knowledge,  in  which,  perhaps,  it  does  Vol¬ 
taire  wrong,  the  two  cannot  be  compared.  Goethe  is  all,  or  the  best  of  all, 
that  Voltaire  was,  and  he  is  much  that  Voltaire  did  not  dream  of.  To 
say  nothing  of  his  dignified  and  truthful  character  as  a  man,  he  belongs, 


GOETHE. 


147 


as  a  thinker  and  a  writer,  to  a  far  higher  class  than  this  enfant  gate  du 
monde  qu’il  gdta.  He  is  not  a  questioner  and  a  despiser,  hut  a  teacher 
and  a  reverencer  ;  not  a  destroyer,  but  a  builder-up  ;  not  a  wit  only,  but 
a  wise  man.  Of  him  Montesquieu  could  not  have  said,  with  even  epi¬ 
grammatic  truth  :  11  a  plus  que  personne  V esprit  que  tout  le  monde  a. 
Voltaire  was  the  cleverest  of  all  past  and  present  men  ;  but  a  great  man 
is  something  more,  and  this  he  surely  was  not. 

As  poets,  the  two  lived  not  in  the  same  hemisphere,  not  in  the  same 
world.  Of  Voltaire’s  poetry,  it  were  blindness  to  deny  the  polished  in¬ 
tellectual  vigour,  the  logical  symmetry,  the  flashes  that  from  time  to 
time  give  it  the  colour,  if  not  tli3  warmth,  of  fire  :  but  it  is  in  a  far  other 
sense  than  this  that  Goethe  is  a  poet ;  in  a  sense  of  which  the  French 
literature  has  never  afforded  any  example.  We  may  venture  to  say  of 
him,  that  his  province  is  high  and  peculiar ;  higher  than  any  poet  but 
himself,  for  several  generations,  has  so  far  succeeded  in,  perhaps  even 
has  stedfastly  attempted.  In  reading  Goethe’s  poetry,  it  'perpetually 
strikes  us  that  we  are  reading  the  poetry  of  our  own  day  and  generation. 
TsTo  demands  are  made  on  our  credulity  ;  the  light,  the  science,  the 
scepticism  of  the  age,  are  not  hid  from  us.  He  does  not  deal  in  anti¬ 
quated  mythologies,  or  ring  changes  on  traditionary  poetic  forms  ;  there 
are  no  supernal,  no  infernal  influences,  for  Faust  is  an  apparent  rather 
than  a  real  exception  :  but  there  is  the  barren  prose  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  vulgar  life  which  we  are  all  leading ;  and  it  starts  into 
strange  beauty  in  his  hands  ;  and  we  pause  in  delighted  wonder  to  be¬ 
hold  the  flower  of  Poesy'  blooming  in  that  parched  and  rugged  soil. 
This  is  the  end  of  his  Mignons  and  Harpers ,  of  his  Tassos  and  Meisters. 
Poetry,  as  he  views  it,  exists  not  in  time  or  place,  but  in  the  spirit  of 
man  ;  and  Art,  with  Nature,  is  now  to  perform  for  the  poet,  what  Nature 
alone  performed  of  old.  The  divinities  and  demons,  the  witches,  spec¬ 
tres,  and  fairies,  are  vanished  from  the  world,  never  again  to  be  re¬ 
called  :  but  the  Imagination  which  created  these  still  lives,  and  will  for¬ 
ever  live  in  man’s  soul  ;  and  can  again  pour  its  wizard  light  over  the 
Universe,  and  summon  forth  enchantments  as  lovely  or  impressive,  and 
which  its  sister  faculties  will  not  contradict.  To  say  that  Goethe  has 
accomplished  all  this,  would  be  to  say  that  his  genius  is  greater  than 
was  ever  given  to  any  man  ;  for  if  it  was  a  high  and  glorious  mind,  or 
rather  series  of  minds,  that  peopled  the  first  ages  with  their  peculiar 
forms  of  poetry,  it  must  be  a  series  of  minds  much  higher  and  more 
glorious  that  shall  so  people  the  present.  The  angels  and  demons  that 
can  lay  prostrate  our  hearts  in  the  nineteenth  century,  must  be  of  an¬ 
other  and  more  cunning  fashion  than  those  that  subdued  us  in  the 
ninth.  To  have  attempted,  to  have  begun  this  enterprise,  may  be  ac¬ 
counted  the  greatest  praise.  That  Goethe  ever  meditated  it  in  the  form 
here  set  forth,  we  have  no  direct  evidence  ;  but  indeed  such  is  the  end 
and  aim  of  high  poetry  at  all  times  and  seasons ;  for  the  fiction  of  the 


148 


APPENDIX. 


poet  is  not  falsehood,  but  the  purest  truth  ;  and  if  he  would  lead  cap¬ 
tive  our  whole  being,  not  rest  satisfied  with  a  part  of  it,  he  must  ad¬ 
dress  us  on  interests  that  are ,  not  that  were ,  ours  ;  and  in  a  dialect 
which  finds  a  response,  and  not  a  contradiction,  within  our  bosoms. 

How  Goethe  has  fulfilled  these  conditions  in  addressing  us,  an  inspec¬ 
tion  of  his  works,  but  no  description,  can  inform  us.  Let  me  advise 
the  reader  to  study  them,  and  see.  If  he  come  to  the  task  with  an 
opinion  that  poetry  is  an  amusement,  a  passive  recreation  ;  that  its 
highest  object  is  to  supply  a  languid  mind  with  fantastic  shows  and  in¬ 
dolent  emotions,  his  measure  of  enjoyment  is  likely  to  be  scanty,  and 
his  criticisms  will  be  loud,  angry  and  manifold.  But  if  he  know  and 
believe  that  poetry  is  the  essence  of  all  science,  and  requires  the 
purest  of  all  studies  ;  if  he  recollect  that  the  new  may  not  always  be 
the  false*;  that  the  excellence  which  can  be  seen  in  a  moment  is  not 
usually  a  very  deep  one  ;  above  all,  if  his  own  heart  be  full  of  feelings 
and  experiences,  for  which  he  finds  no  name  and  no  solution,  but  which 
lie  in  pain  imprisoned  and  unuttered  in  his  breast,  till  the  Word  be 
spoken,  the  spell  that  is  to  unbind  them,  and  bring  them  forth  to  lib¬ 
erty  and  light ;  then,  if  I  mistake  not,  he  will  find  that  in  this  Goethe 
there  is  a  new  world  set  before  his  eyes  ;  a  world  of  Earnestness  and 
Sport,  of  solemn  cliff  and  gay  plain  ;  some  such  temple — far  inferior, 
as  it  may  well  be,  in  magnificence  and  beauty,  but  a  temple  of  the  same 
architecture — some  such  temple  for  the  Spirit  of  our  age,  as  the  Shak- 
speares  and  Spensers  have  raised  for  the  Spirit  of  theirs. 

This  seems  a  bold  assertion  :  but  it  is  not  made  without  deliberation, 
and  such  conviction  as  it  has  stood  within  my  means  to  obtain.  If  it 
invite  discussion,  and  forward  the  discovery  of  the  truth  in  this  matter, 
its  best  purpose  will  be  answered.  Goethe’s  genius  is  a  study  for  other 
minds  than  have  yet  seriously  engaged  with  it  among  us.  By  and  by, 
apparently  ere  long,  he  will  be  tried  and  judged  righteously  ;  he  him¬ 
self,  and  no  cloud  instead  of  him  ;  for  he  comes  to  us  in  such  a  ques¬ 
tionable  shape,  that  silence  and  neglect  will  not  always  serve  our  pur¬ 
pose.  England,  the  chosen  home  of  justice  in  all  its  senses,  where  the 
humblest  merit  has  been  acknowledged,  and  the  highest  fault  not  un¬ 
duly  punished,  will  do  no  injustice  to  this  extraordinary  man.  And  if, 
when  her  impartial  sentence  has  been  pronounced  and  sanctioned,  it 
shall  appear  that  Goethe’s  earliest  admirers  have  wandered  too  far  into 
the  language  of  panegyric,  I  hope  it  may  be  reckoned  no  unpardonable 
sin.  It  is  spirit-stirring  rather  than  spirit-sharpening,  to  consider  that 
there  is  one  of  the  Prophets  here  with  us  in  our  own  day  ;  that  a  man 
who  is  to  be  numbered  with  the  Sages  and  Sacri  Vates,  the  Shakspeares, 
the  Tassos,  the  Cervanteses  of  the  world,  is  looking  on  the  things  which 
we  look  on,  has  dealt  with  the  very  thoughts  which  we  have  to  deal 
with,  is  reigning  in  serene  dominion  over  the  perplexities  and  contra¬ 
dictions  in  which  we  are  still  painfully  entangled. 


GOETHE. 


149 


That  Goethe’s  mind  is  full  of  inconsistencies  and  shortcomings,  can 
he  a  secret  to  no  one  who  has  heard  of  the  Fall  of  Adam.  Nor  would  it 
he  difficult,  in  this  place,  to  muster  a  long  catalogue  of  darknesses  defac¬ 
ing  our  perception  of  this  brightness  :  hut  it  might  he  still  less  profit¬ 
able  than  it  is  difficult  ;  for  in  Goethe’s  writings,  as  in  those  of  all  true 
masters,  an  apparent  blemish  is  apt,  after  maturer  study,  to  pass  into 
a  beauty.  His  works  cannot  he  judged  in  fractions,  for  each  of  them 
is  conceived  and  written  as  a  whole  ;  the  humble  and  common  may  he 
no  less  essential  there  than  the  high  and  splendid  :  it  is  only  Chinese 
pictures  that  have  no  shade.  There  is  a  maxim,  far  better  known  than 
practised,  that  to  detect  faults  is  a  much  lower  occupation  than  to  rec¬ 
ognise  merits.  We  may  add  also,  that  though  far  easier  in  the  execu¬ 
tion,  it  is  not  a  whit  more  certain  in  the  result.  What  is  the  detecting 
of  a  fault,  hut  the  feeling  of  an  incongruity,  of  a  contradiction,  which 
may  exist  in  ourselves  as  well  as  in  the  object  ?  Who  shall  say  in 
which  ?  None  hut  he  who  sees  this  object  as  it  is,  and  himself  as  he  is. 
We  have  all  heard  of  the  critic  fly  ;  hut  none  of  us  doubts  the  compass 
of  his  own  vision.  It  is  thus  that  a  high  work  of  art,  still  more  that  a 
high  and  original  mind  may  at  all  times  calculate  on  much  sorriest  criti¬ 
cism.  In  looking  at  an  extraordinary  man,  it  were  good  for  an  ordinary 
man  to  be  sure  of  seeing  him,  before  attempting  to  oversee  him.  Hav¬ 
ing  ascertained  that  Goethe  is  an  object  deserving  stud_y,  it  will  be  time 
to  censure  his  faults  when  we  have  clearly  estimated  his  merits  ;  and  if 
we  are  wise  judges,  not  till  then. 

Whether  this  work  of  Wilhelm  Meister's  Wanderjahre 1  will  exalt  or 
depress  our  actual  judgment  of  him,  I  pretend  not  to  predict.  Like  all 
Goethe’s  works,  its  immediate  reception  is  doubtful,  or  rather,  perhaps, 
it  is  not  doubtful.  That  these  Travels  will  surprise  and  disappoint  the 
reader,  is  too  likely  ;  and  perhaps  the  reader  of  the  Apprenticeship  will 
be  more  surprised  than  any  other.  The  book  is  called  a  romance  ;  but 
it  treats  not  of  romance  characters  or  subjects ;  it  has  less  relation  to 
Fielding’s  Tom  Jones  than  to  Spenser’s  Faery  Queen.  The  scene  is  not 
laid  on  this  firm  Earth,  but  in  a  fair  Utopia  of  Art  and  Science  and  free 
Activity :  the  figures,  light  and  aeriform,  come  unlooked  for,  and  melt 
away  abruptly,  like  the  pageants  of  Prospero  in  his  enchanted  Island. 

1  Wanderjahre  denotes  the  period  which  a  German  artisan  is,  by  law  or  usage,  obliged 
to  pass  in  travelling,  to  perfect  himself  in  his  craft,  after  the  conclusion  of  his  Lehrjahre 
(Apprenticeship),  and  before  his  Mastership  can  begin.  In  many  gilds  this  custom  is  as 
old  as  their  existence,  and  continues  still  to  be  indispensable  ;  it  is  said  to  have  originated 
in  the  frequent  journeys  of  the  German  Emperors  to  Italy,  and  the  consequent  improve¬ 
ment  observed  in  such  workmen  among  their  menials  as  had  attended  them  thither. 
Most  of  the  gilds  are  what  is  called  gehchenkten ,  that  is,  presenting,  having  presents  to 
give  to  needy  wandering  brothers.  This  word  Wanderjahre  I  have  been  obliged  to  trans¬ 
late  by  Travels,  after  in  vain  casting  about  for  an  expression  that  should  more  accurately 
represent  it.  Our  mechanics  have  a  word  much  nearer  the  mark  :  but  this  was  never 
printed  ;  and  must  not  be  printed,  for  the  first  time,  here. 


150 


APPENDIX. 


Whether  this  the  baseless  fabric  of  their  vision  is  beautiful  and  signifi¬ 
cant  like  his,  or  vague  and  false,  onr  readers  are  now  to  determine.  To 
a  reader  of  the  original  this  question  may  appear  already  pretty  well  de¬ 
cided  :  in  both  languages,  it  is  true,  the  work  is  still  a  fragment,  hang¬ 
ing  suspended  in  middle  air  ;  but  the  matchless  graces  of  its  workman¬ 
ship,  the  calm  fulness,  the  noble  simplicity  of  its  style,  are,  ill  many 
points,  for  the  one  language  only. 

Nevertheless,  I  present  this  work  to  the  English  people  without  re¬ 
luctance  or  misgivings,  persuaded  that  though  it  may  be  caviare  to  the 
general,  there  are  not  wanting  tastes  among  us  to  discern  its  worth  and 
worthlessness,  even  under  its  present  disadvantages,  and  to  pronounce 
truly  on  both.  Of  his  previous  reception  in  this  country,  neither  Goethe 
nor  his  admirers  have  reason  to  complain.  By  all  men  who  have  any 
pretension  to  depth  or  sensibility  of  mind,  the  existence  of  a  high  and 
peculiar  genius  has  been  cheerfully  recognised  in  him  ;  a  fact  which, 
considering  the  unwonted  and  in  many  points  forbidding  aspect  of  his 
chief  works,  does  honour  both  to  the  author  and  his  critics  ;  while  their 
often  numerous  and  grave  objections  have  proved  only  that  they  had 
studied  him  with  the  cursory  eye,  which  may  suffice  for  cursory  writers, 
but  for  him  is  not  sufficient,  nor  likely  to  be  final.  In  no  quarter  has 
there  appeared  any  tendency  to  wilful  unfairness,  any  jealousy  as  to¬ 
wards  a  stranger,  any  disposition  to  treat  him  otherwise  than  according 
to  his  true  deserts.  Indeed,  wherefore  should  there  ?  We  of  England 
have  of  all  nations,  past  and  present,  the  least  cause  to  be  jealous  with 
this  mean  jealousy.  Our  oavii  literature  is  peopled  with  kingly  names; 
our  language  is  beautiful  with  their  English  intellects  and  English  char¬ 
acters  ;  their  works  live  forever  in  our  hearts.  If  we  cannot  love  and 
hold  fast  our  own,  and  yet  be  just  to  others,  who  is  there  that  can  ?  In 
soliciting  and  anticipating  a  true  estimate  of  Goethe,  I  have  only  to  wish 
that  the  same  sentiments  may  continue  with  us. 

For  the  rest,  if  it  seem  that  I  advocate  this  cause  too  warmly  ;  that 
Goethe’s  genius,  whether  it  be  good  or  bad,  is  in  truth  a  very  small  con¬ 
cern  to  us,  I  may  be  allowed  to  remind  my  readers,  that  the  existence 
or  non-existence  of  a  new  Poet  for  the  World  in  our  own  time,  of  a  new 
Instructor  and  Preacher  of  Truth  to  all  men,  is  really  a  question  of  more 
importance  to  us  than  many  that  are  agitated  with  far  greater  noise- 


FRACTIONS:  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  NIGHT-MOTH.  151 


II. 

FRACTIONS. 

[1823-1833.] 

i. 

TRAGEDY  OF  THE  NIGHT-MOTH. 

Magna  ausus. 

’Tis  placid  midnight,  stars  are  keeping 
Their  meek  and  silent  course  in  heaven ; 

Save  pale  recluse,  for  knowledge  seeking, 

All  mortal  things  to  sleep  are  given. 

But  see  !  a  wandering  Night -moth  enters, 
Allured  by  taper  gleaming  bright  ; 

A  while  keeps  hovering  round,  then  ventures 
On  Goethe’s  mystic  page  to  light. 

With  awe  she  views  the  candle  blazing  ; 

A  universe  of  fire  it  seems 

To  moth-savante  with  rapture  gazing, 

Or  Fount  whence  Life  and  Motion  streams. 

What  passions  in  her  small  heart  whirling, 
Hopes  boundless,  adoration,  dread  ; 

At  length  her  tiny  pinions  twirling, 

She  darts  and — puff  ! — the  moth  is  dead  ! 

The  sullen  flame,  for  her  scarce  sparkling, 
Gives  but  one  hiss,  one  fitful  glare  ; 

Now  bright  and  busy,  now  all  darkling, 

She  snaps  and  fades  to  empty  air. 

Her  bright  gray  form  that  spread  so  slimly, 
Some  fan  she  seemed  of  pigmy  Queen  ; 

Her  silky  cloak  that  lay  so  trimly, 

Her  wee,  wee  eyes  that  looked  so  keen. 

Last  moment  here,  now  gone  forever, 

To  naught  are  passed  with  fiery  pain  ; 

And  ages  circling  round  shall  never 
Give  to  this  creature  shape  again  1 


152 


APPENDIX. 


Poor  moth  !  near  weeping  I  lament  thee, 

Thy  glossy  form,  thy  instant  woe  ; 

’Twas  zeal  for  1  things  too  high  ’  that  sent  thee 
From  cheery  earth  to  shades  below. 

Short  speck  of  boundless  Space  was  needed 
For  home,  for  kingdom,  world  to  thee  ! 

Where  passed  unheeding  as  unheeded, 

Thy  little  life  from  sorrow  free. 

But  syren  hopes  from  out  thy  dwelling 
Enticed  thee,  bade  thee  earth  explore, — 

Thy  frame  so  late  with  rapture  swelling, 

Is  swept  from  earth  forevermore  ! 

Poor  moth  !  thy  fate  my  own  resembles : 

Me  too  a  restless  asking  mind 

Hath  sent  on  far  and  weary  rambles, 

To  seek  the  good  I  ne’er  shall  find. 

Like  thee,  with  common  lot  contented, 

With  humble  joys  and  vulgar  fate, 

I  might  have  lived  and  ne’er  lamented, 

Moth  of  a  larger  size,  a  longer  date ! 

But  Nature’s  majesty  unveiling 

What  seem’d  her  wildest,  grandest  charms,. 

Eternal  Truth  and  Beauty  hailing, 

Like  thee,  I  rushed  into  her  arms. 

What  gained  we,  little  moth  ?  Thy  ashes, 
Thy  one  brief  parting  pang  may  show : 

And  thoughts  like  these,  for  soul  that  dashes 
From  deep  to  deep,  are — death  more  slow  1 


ii. 

CUI  BONO. 

What  is  Hope  ?  A  smiling  rainbow 
Children  follow  through  the  wet ; 
’Tis  not  here,  still  yonder,  yonder : 
Never  urchin  found  it  yet. 

What  is  Life  ?  A  thawing  iceboard 
On  a  sea  with  sunny  shoi’e  ; — 

Gay  we  sail  ;  it  melts. beneath  us  ; 
We  are  sunk,  and  seen  no  more. 


FRACTIONS:  FOUR  FABLES. 


153 


What  is  Man  ?  A  foolish  baby, 

Vainly  strives,  and  fights,  and  frets  ; 
Demanding  all,  deserving  nothing  ; — 
One  small  grave  is. what  he  gets. 


hi. 

FOUR  FABLES. 

1. 

Once  upon  a  time,  a  man,  somewhat  in  drink  belike,  raised  a  dread¬ 
ful  outcry  at  the  corner  of  the  market-place,  “That  the  world  was  all 
turned  topsy-turvy  ;  that  the  men  and  cattle  were  all  walking  with 
their  feet  uppermost ;  that  the  houses  and  earth  at  large  sqf  they  did 
not  mind  it)  would  fall  into  the  sky  ;  in  short,  that  unless  prompt 
means  were  taken,  things  in  general  were  on  the  high  road  to  the 
Devil.”  As  the  people  only  laughed  at  him,  he  cried  the  louder  and 
more  vehemently  ;  nay,  at  last,  began  objuring,  foaming,  imprecating  ; 
when  a  good-natured  auditor,  going  up.  took  the  orator  by  the  haunches, 
and  softly  inverting  his  position,  set  him  down— on  his  feet.  The 
which  upon  perceiving,  his  mind  was  staggered  not  a  little.  “Ha! 
deuce  take  it!”  cried  he,  rubbing  his  eyes,  “  so  it  was  not  the  world 
that  was  hanging  by  its  feet  then,  but  I  that  was  standing  on  my 
head  !  ” 

Censor,  Castigcitor  morum ,  Radical  Reformer,  by  whatever  name  thou 
art  called  !  have  a  care  ;  especially  if  thou  art  getting  loud  ! 

Pilpay  Junior. 

2. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  a  conjurer,  one  fine  starry  evening,  “these 
heavens  are  a  deceptio  xisus  ;  what  you  call  stars  are  nothing  but  fiery 
motes  in  the  air.  Wait  a  little,  I  will  clear  them  off,  and  show  you  how 
the  matter  is.”  Whereupon  the  artist  produced  a  long  syringe  of  great 
force  ;  and,  stooping .  over  the  neighbouring  puddle,  filled  it  with  mud 
and  dirty  water,  which  he  then  squirted  with  might  and  main  against 
the  zenith.  The  wiser  of  the  company  unfurled  their  umbrellas ;  but 
most  part,  looking  up  in  triumph,  cried,  “Down  with  delusion  !  It  is 
an  age  of  science  !  Have  we  not  tallow  lights  then  ?  ”  Here  the  mud 
and  dirty  water  fell,  and  bespattered  and  beplastered  these  simple  per¬ 
sons,  and  even  put  out  the  eyes  of  several,  so  that  they  never  saw  the 
stars  any  more. 

Enlightened  Utilitarian  !  art  thou  aware  that  this  patent  logic-mill  of 
thine,  which  grindetlx  with  such  a  clatter,  is  but  a  mill  ?  P.  J. 


154 


APPENDIX. 


3. 

“  It  is  I  that  support  this  household,”  said  a  hen  one  day  to  herself ; 
“  the  master  cannot  breakfast  without  an  egg,  for  he  is  dyspeptical 
and  would  die,  and  it  is  I  that  lay  it.  And  here  is  this  ugly  poodle, 
doing  nothing  earthly,  and  gets  thrice  the  victual  I  do,  and  is  caressed 
all  day  !  By  the  Cock  of  Minerva,  they  shall  give  me  a  double  portion 
of  oats,  or  they  have  eaten  their  last  egg !  ”  But  much  as  she  cackled 
and  creaked,  the  scullion  would  not  give  her  an  extra  grain  ;  where¬ 
upon,  in  dudgeon,  she  hid  her  next  egg  in  the  dunghill,  and  did  noth¬ 
ing  but  cackle  and  creak  all  day.  The  scullion  suffered  her  for  a  week, 
then  (by  order)  drew  her  neck,  and  purchased  other  eggs  at  sixpence 
the  dozen. 

Man  !  why  frettest  thou  and  wliinest  thou  ?  This  blockhead  is  hap¬ 
pier  than  thou,  and  still  a  blockhead  ? — Ah,  sure  enough,  thy  wages 
are  too  low !  Wilt  thou  strike  work  with  Providence  then,  and  force 
him  to  ‘  an  alternative  ?  ’  Believe  it,  he  will  do  without  thee  :  il  n’y  a 

'point  (Vhomme  necessaire.  P.  J. 

4. 

‘  ‘  What  is  the  use  of  thee,  thou  gnarled  sapling  ?  ”  said  a  young  larch- 
tree  to  a  young  oak.  “I  grow  three  feet  in  a  year,  thou  scarcely  as 
many  inches  ;  I  am  Straight  and  taper  as  a  reed,  thou  straggling  and 
twisted  as  a  loosened  withe.” — “And  thy  duration,”  answered  the  oak, 
“is  some  third  part  of  man’s  life,  and  I  am  appointed  to  flourish  for  a 
thousand  years.  Thou  art  felled  and  sawed  into  paling,  where  thou 
rottest  and  art  burned  after  a  single  summer  ;  of  me  are  fashioned  bat¬ 
tle-ships,  and  I  carry  mariners  and  heroes  into  unknown  seas.” 

The  richer  a  nature,  the  harder  and  slower  its  development.  Two 
boys  were  once  of  a  class  in  the  Edinburgh  grammar-school :  John  ever 
trim,  precise  and  dux  ;  Walter  ever  slovenly,  confused  and  dolt.  In 
due  time,  John  became  Bailie  John  of  Hunter-square,  and  Walter  be¬ 
came  Sir  Walter  Scott  of  the  Universe. 

The  quickest  and  completest  of  all  vegetables  is  the  cabbage. 

P.  J. 


IY. 

THE  SOWER’S  SONG. 

Now  hands  to  seedsheet,  boys, 

We  step  and  we  cast ;  old  Time’s  on  wing ; 
And  would  ye  partake  of  Harvest’s  joys, 
The  corn  must  be  sown  in  Spring. 

Fall  gently  and  still ,  good  corn , 

Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed  ; 

And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn , 

For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 


FRACTIONS :  ADIEU 


155 


Old  Earth  is  a  pleasure  to  see 
In  sunshiny  cloak  of  red  and  green ; 

The  furrow  lies  fresh  ;  this  Year  will  be 
As  Years  that  are  past  have  been. 

Fall  gen  tly ,  &c. 

Old  Mother,  receive  this  corn, 

The  son  of  Six  Thousand  golden  sires  : 

All  these  on  thy  kindly  breast  were  born ; 
One  more  thy  poor  child  requires. 

Fall  gently ,  &c. 

Now  stead}'  and  sure  again, 

And  measure  of  stroke  and  step  we  keep  ; 
Thus  up  and  thus  down  we  bast  our  grain  : 
Sow  well  and  you  gladly  reap. 

Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn , 

Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 

A\id  stand  so  yelloic  some  morn , 

For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 


v. 

ADIEU. 

Let  time  and  chance  combine,  combine, 
Let  time  and  chance  combine  ; 

The  fairest  love  from  heaven  abov-e, 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine, 

My  dear, 

That  love  of  yours  was  mine. 

The  past  is  fled  and  gone,  and  gone, 

The  past  is  fled  and  gone  ; 

If  naught  but  pain  to  me  remain, 

I’ll  fare  in  memory  on, 

My  dear, 

I’ll  fare  in  memory  on. 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall,  must  fall, 
The  saddest  tears  must  fall  ; 

In  weal  or  woe,  in  this  world  below, 

I  love  you  ever  and  all, 

My  dear, 

Hove  you  ever  and  all. 


156 


AFP  END  IX. 


A  long  road  full  of  pain,  of  pain, 

A  long  road  full  of  pain  ; 

One  soul,  one  heart,  sworn  ne’er  to  part, — 
We  ne’er  can  meet  again, 

My  dear, 

We  ne’er  can  meet  again. 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow,  allow, 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow  ; 

"We  blessed  were  as  the  angels  are, — 

Adieu  forever  now, 

My  dear, 

Adieu  forever  now. 


vi. 


THE  BEETLE. 

Poor  hobbling  Beetle,  needst  not  haste  ; 
Should  Traveller  Traveller  thus  alarm  ? 
Pursue  thy  journey  through  the  waste, 

Not  foot  of  mine  shall  work  thee  harm. 

Who  knows  what  errand  grave  thou  hast, 

‘  Small  family  ’ — that  have  not  dined  ? 
Lodged  under  pebble,  there  they  fast, 

Till  head  of  house  have  raised  the  wind  I 

Man’s  bread  lies  ’mong  the  feet  of  men  ; 

For  cark  and  moil  sufficient  cause ! 

Who  cannot  sow  would  reap  ; — and  then 
In  Beetledom  are  no  Poor-Laws. 

And  if  thy  Wife  and  thou  agree 
But  ill,  as  like  when  short  of  victual, 

I  swear,  the  Public  Sympathy 
Thy  fortune  meriteth,  poor  Beetle. 

.  ♦ 

Alas,  and  I  should  do  thee  skaith, 

To  realms  of  Night  with  heeltap  send  ! 

Who  judg’d  thee  worthy  pains  of  Heath  ? — 
On  Earth,  save  me,  without  a  Friend ! 


FRACTIONS:  FORTUNA. 

Pass  on,  poor  Beetle,  venerable 
Art  tlioa,  were  wonders  ne’er  so  rife  ; 
Thou  hast  what  Bel  to  Tower  of  Babel 
Not  gave  :  the  chief  of  wonders — Life. 

Also  of  ‘ancient  family,’ 

Though  small  in  size,  of  feature  dark  : 
What  Debrett’s  Peer  surpasseth  thee  ? 
Thy  Ancestor  was  in  Noah’s  Ark. 


VII. 

TO-DAY. 

So  here  hath  been  dawning 
Another  blue  Day : 

Think  wilt  thou  let  it 
Slip  useless  away. 

Out  of  Eternity 
This  new  Day  is  born  ; 

Into  Eternity, 

At  night,  will  return. 

Behold  it  aforetime 
No  eye  ever  did  : 

So  soon  it  forever 
From  all  eyes  is  hid. 

Here  hath  been  dawning 
Another  blue  Day : 

Think  wilt  thou  let  it 
Slip  useless  away. 


VIII. 

FORTUNA. 

The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west 
And  the  frost  falls  and  the  rain  : 

A  weary  heart  went  thankful  to  rest, 

And  must  rise  to  toil  again,  ’gain, 

And  must  rise  to  toil  again. 


APPENDIX. 

The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west, 
And  there  comes  good  lock  and  bad ; 

The  thriftiest  man  is  the  clieerf  ullest : 

’Tis  a  thriftless  thing  to  be  sad,  sad, 

’Tis  a  thriftless  thing  to  be  sad. 

The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west ; 
Ye  shall  know  a  tree  by  its  fruit : 

This  world,  they  say,  is  worst  to  the  best ; — 
But  a  dastard  has  evil  to  boot,  boot, 

But  a  dastard  has  evil  to  boot. 

The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west ; 
What  skills  it  to  mourn  or  to  talk  ? 

A  journey  I  have,  and  far  ere  I  rest; 

I  must  bundle  my  wallets  and  walk,  walk, 

I  must  bundle  my  wallets  and  walk. 

The  wind  does  blow  as  it  lists  alway ; 

Canst  thou  change  this  world  to  thy  mind  ? 
The  world  will  wander  its  own  wise  way ; 

I  also  will  wander  mine,  mine, 

I  also  will  wander  mine. 


X  SUD  3  2&  02 
1  -  16*3- 

LOVELL’S  LITERATURE  SERIES— Continued. 


/ 

107 

108 

100 
1 10 
11  : 

112 

H3 

114 

Hi 

116 

117 

118 

HQ 

120 


122 

123 

124 

125 
U6 
127 

125 

126 
130 

132 

133 

*3'4 

x^6 

137 

*3(9 

1 40 

14  c 

142 
03 

144 

146 

147 

143 


Seekers  After  God.  By  Canon 

Farrar . .  25 

Life  of  Marion.  By  Horry  and 

Weems .  25 

The  Hermits.  By  Kingsley....  25 
Early  Days  of  Christianity.  Part 

I.  By  Canon  Farrar .  25 

Early  Days  of  Christianity.  II.  25 
Life  of  Cromwell.  Paxton  Hood  20 
The  Conquest  of  Granada.  By 

Warhington  Irving .  25 

Conquest  of  Spain.  By  Irving.  20 
India  and  Ceylon.  Ernst  Heckel 
More  Words  About  the  Bible... 
India  :  What  Can  It  Teach  Us  ? 
Anti-Slavery  Days.  J.  F.  Clarke 

Beyond  the  Sunrise .  25 

Life  of  Columbus.  Vol.  I.  By 

Washington  Irving .  30 

Life  of  Columbus.  Vol.  II .  30 

Abbotsford  and  Newstead  Abbey 

By  Washington  Irving .  20 

Knickerbocker  History  of  New 
York.  Washington  Irving..  25 
Life  of  Daniel  Webster.  Parti.  25 
Life  of  Daniel  Webster.  II....  25 
A  Delsartean  Scrap-Book.  Com¬ 
piled  by  F.  Sanborn .  25 

The  Alhambra.  W.  Irving .  20 


25 

25 

25 

25 


Plutarch’s  Lives. 
Plutarch’s  Lives. 
Plutarch’s  Lives. 
Plutarch’s  Lives. 
Plutarch’s  Lives. 
The  Open  Door. 


Part  1 .  30 

Part  II .  30 

Part  III .  30 

Part  IV .  30 

Part  V .  30 

Dr.  Dewey. ..  30 


Hypatia.  By  Charles  Kingsley  50 
Essays.  By  Ralph  Waldo  Emer¬ 
son.  1  Volume  Edition .  50 

Romola.  By  George  Eliot .  50 

Uarda.  By  Georg  Ebers .  50 

Life  of  Mahomet.  Vol.  I.  By 

Washington  Irving .  25 

Lorna  Doone.  By  R.  D.  Black- 

m  ire .  50 

An  Irish  Knight  of  the  10th  Cen¬ 
tury.  By  Varina  Anne  Davis  25 
Jane  Eyre.  Charlotte  Bronte..  50 
The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  By 

Lord  Lytton .  50 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman.  By 

Miss  Mulock .  50 

Poems.  By  Robert  Burns .  25 

On  the  Heights.  By  Berthold 

Auerbach . . . .' .  50 

Undine  and  Other  Tales.  By 

De  La  Motte  Foque .  50 

Bracebridge  Hall.  By  Wash¬ 
ington  Irving .  30 

Salmagundi.  By  W.  Irving. .. .  25 

Astoria.  By  W.  Irving .  30 

Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual 
World.  Henry  Drummond. .  30 
Life  of  Mahomet.  Vol.  II.  By 
Washington  Irving .  25 


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*54 

*55 

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*57 

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Ivanhoe.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott  .  50 
Westward  Ho  !  By  Kingsley..  50 
Vanity  Fair.  By  William  M. 

Thackeray .  50 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  By 

George  Eliot .  30 

Life  of  Hume.  By  Professor 

Huxley .  10 

Story  of  Chinese  Gordon.  By 

A.  Egmont  Hake .  25 

Eliot’s  Essays.  George  Eliot. . .  25 
Life  of  Defoe.  By  Wm.  Minto.  10 
Life  of  Locke.  By  T.  Fowler..  10 
Homer’s  Odyssey.  Translated 

by  Alexander  Pope .  30 

Life  of  Milton.  Mark  Pattison.  10 
Homer’s  Iliad.  Translated  by 

Alexander  Pope .  30 

Life  of  Pope.  Leslie  Stephen..  10 
LifeOf  Johnson.  Leslie  Stephen  10 
Crown  of  Wild  Olive  :  Sesame 
and  Lilies.  By  John  Ruskin.  50 
Poe’s  Poems.  By  E.  A.  Poe. ...  25 
Life  of  Southey.  By  Professor 

Dowden . 10 

Life  of  Blaine.  By  Chas.  W. 

Balestier .  20 

Middlemarch.  By  George  Eliot  50 
Wolfert’s  Roost.  By  Irving....  10 

Shirley.  By  Charlotte  Bronte. .  50 
Topics  of  the  Times.  By  Rev. 

Howard  MacQueary . 

The  Last  of  the  Barons.  By  Sir 

E.  Bulwer  Lytton .  50 

Adam  Bede.  By  George  Eliot.  50 
Chicago  Bible  Stories.  Ursula 

Gestefeld . 

Poems  of  Goethe.  By  Edgar 

Alfred  Bowring,  C.B .  25 

Life  of  Bunyan.  J.  A.  Froude.  10 
Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers. 
Wm.  Edmondstoune  Aytoun. .  25 

Modern  Christianity .  20 

Life  of  Shelley.  By  John  Ad¬ 
dington  Symonds .  10 

Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  By  R. 

H.  Hutton .  10 

Spiritism.  By  Edelweiss . 

Life  of  Chaucer.  Prof.  A.  W. 

Ward .  10 

Life  of  Cowper.  Goldwin  Smith  10 
Life  of  Spenser.  A.  W.  Church  10 
Life  of  Wordsworth.  F.  Meyers  10 
Life  of  Goldsmith.  By  Irving..  25 
Beecher’s  Speeches  in  England 

in  1863 .  50 

Life  of  Burke.  By  John  Morley  10 
Captain  Bonneville.  By  Irving  25 

Lifeof  Paul  Jones .  25. 

Rossetti’s  Poems.  By  Dante 

Gabriel  Rossetti .  25 

Life  of  Burns.  Principal  Shairp  10. 
Poems  of  Schiller.  By  Edgar 

Alfred  Bowring,  C.B .  25 

Goethe’s  Faust.  By  J.  W.  von 
Goethe .  25 


151  Moorish  Chronicles.  By  Irving  10 

152  The  Moonstone.  By  W.  Collins  50 

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